of me. He came back in, set up for around five minutes, then turned to look at me. I regarded his eyes. I was looking for a window to his soul. All I got was leaded glass. I cleared my throat. “You want me to take the robe off now?”
He nodded yes.
Slowly I untied the belt and let the garment fall from my shoulders. “Should I sit the same as last time?”
He shook his head no. “I want something different tonight.”
“Different?”
“I want to tie you up.”
Involuntarily, my fingers wrapped around my throat. “What?”
“I want to tie you up.”
The room went silent. I started shivering. “Why?”
He extended his arms out from his shoulders and slumped his head to the side. “You are my artistic vision of Our Lord Jesus on the cross. I can’t crucify you. So this is the next best thing.”
I was too stunned to talk.
“Say no if you’re squeamish.”
“Chris, I’m not squeamish—”
“So do it.” He came over to the bed and draped his robe around my shoulders. “Please, please, Terry. It’s very important to me.”
I looked at the ceiling. “You are absolutely the most wonderful, but weirdest boy I have ever met in my entire life.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Call it artistic temperament.” His eyes met mine. He lowered his head and kissed my feet. “I’m begging you. Please?”
I fell backward onto his mattress. “I must be crazy—”
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes, I’ll do it.”
Without ceremony, Chris got up from the bed, went to his closet, and pulled out a dozen neckties. I felt my heart beating wildly. I stuttered out, “You’ve done this before?”
He didn’t answer.
“Just swear to me that you’re not a serial killer.”
“I’m not a serial killer. Lie down.” He waited, I waited. Gently, he pushed down on my shoulders. “Please.”
As I lay on his bed, he pulled off the robe, took my right arm, and secured it to his headboard with one of his ties. Then he did the left. I felt as powerless as a deboned chicken. I wiggled my fingers.
“Too tight?” he asked.
“No … I have circulation … barely.”
“Your limbs start to tingle, let me know. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, that’s comforting.”
His face became flat. “Terry, I could snap your neck as easily as taking a breath. I don’t want to do nasty things to you. I draw you as an expression of my love for you. Do you believe me?”
“Of course, but—”
“Good. Then cross your ankles.”
“You’re tying my feet, too?”
“Jesus was bound and constrained when he died. Cross your ankles.”
I crossed my ankles. He tied them together, then took another tie and bound me to his footboard. Completely immobilized, I started to shiver. He threw the blanket over my body and started arranging my hair.
“You want to paste a false beard on me?”
He didn’t answer, smoothing out loose strands of hair. He moved my head to one side, then to the other. He told me to look up, look down, close my eyes, open my eyes, smile, frown, then look beatific. Finally, he stood and removed the blanket from my body. Chris studied me for a long time.
He went to his easel and drew for twenty minutes, then stopped. “The angle’s not right. It’s too much an aerial view.”
“Perhaps you’d like to construct a cross and we can try it again next week.”
His voice turned harsh. “Don’t make fun of me.”
I was quiet, felt tears in my eyes. He stared at me for a moment, then threw his chalk across the room. “Fuck it!”
He stomped over and began untying my arms, angry and frustrated. I felt as if I’d failed him. Worse yet, I felt as if I’d failed art.
Freed of the binds, I shook out my limbs as he sat dejected on the edge of his bed. I blanketed myself with his comforter, sat next to him, and reached for his hand. He tensed at my touch. I withdrew my fingers.
I said, “It’s early, Christopher. Let’s try it again.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s almost nine. How much time do you have?”
“As much as you need.”
He ran his hand over his face. “God, I’m being a selfish pig. You’re pale. You must be hungry. Let me take you out to eat.”
“No, it’s okay. Let’s just keep going.”
“Not until I get some nutrition into you.” He stood and began to pace. “Put on one of my robes and I’ll make you something. While you’re eating, I want to look at some religious art books. That sound okay?”
“Yes, it sounds ducky.”
He bent down and kissed my forehead. “You’re a great sport.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. “You can put it on my tombstone as an epitaph.”
He left without answering me. I shuddered. I was sorry I’d made the wisecrack.
After the break, Chris became very mathematical about his proportions. He measured distances and angles—from my shoulder to my hand, from my hand to his headboard. He struggled with many positions until he found a couple of poses he liked. By the time he actually began drawing, it was close to eleven. At one in the morning, Chris ripped up his current work.
“I’m fading.” He paused. “You looked tired, too.”
I was exhausted. I never realized that modeling was such hard work. He untied me. I shook out my limbs, feeling numb and drained. He placed the comforter around my shoulders, then told me to put my clothes on.
He didn’t see me when I walked into the living room. I watched him play back his answering machine messages, the last being a girl telling him to get his butt over to Tom’s because he was missing a terrific party. I knew the voice. She was pretty and loose—two traits that made her very popular. Short blond hair and bright blue eyes. The sex goddess of Central West Valley High.
“Cheryl Diggs,” I said.
Chris
