"He's late." I stared a while at Kurt, who was perched up high in the studio window, smoking a cigarette and watching the sunset. His legs were spread wide and his robe gaped—anyone walking in the door would've had a glorious view of his jewels.

On the ledge in a far corner, the radio chirped That'll Be the Day. I listened half-distracted to Buddy Holly's homely voice.

"M's always late," said Kurt, mouthing a smoke ring and watching it expand over his head like a stretched-out halo. "He's an artist. It's his thing."

"Uh huh," I muttered. I'd met plenty of artists in Toronto. Far as I could tell they smoked too much Mary Jane and wrote really bad poetry. Beat, they called it, and sat around snapping their fingers at each other. They'd say things over their eightieth cappuccino like, 'You should go to Stratford, Ben. I can really see you as Horatio.' Never mind Hamlet, apparently, but I rated a good sidekick. I was saving up for California. Which had got me here in the first place—several of the guys from performance class, including Kurt, had said this sort of gig paid in spades. If you didn't get busted. I was a little on edge. "You worked with this guy before?"

Kurt glanced down at me. "Nervous?"

"What's this M crap, anyway?"

"He's amazing, Ben. They bring him in from Montreal, special. You'll see."

"And what are we supposed to call him?"

Kurt shrugged, stubbing out his butt on the sill. "I wouldn't worry about it. He's not too chatty."

M slid in about twenty minutes later, no apologies. "Gentlemen," was all he said, and then set about unpacking his stuff, arranging tripods and lights, fitting a lens on his camera. He went over and changed the radio to a classical station. Kurt hopped down from the window and started doing some stretches, and I just stood there looking at our photographer. I'd expected some fussy little French pouf, but this guy was a monster, well over six feet and broad-shouldered. He wore his hair in a black braid down his back, dark ribbed turtleneck and old blue jeans, narrow leather boots.

"Get lost in traffic?" I asked innocently enough, and Kurt gave me a sharp look.

M's eyes moved over me briefly, and he flashed a cold smile, teeth showing. "You chose to wait, Mr. Randolph."

That gave me pause. I wondered how the hell he knew my name.

Kurt's robe was already off and he'd taken a seat on one of the white-draped cubes by the backdrop. His balls pooled between his legs like large compressed grapes, schlong dangling casually before them. He propped an elbow on his raised knee. "Chop, chop, Benny," he said, catching my eye and glancing sidelong at M, who apparently had nothing to say.

I dropped my robe and went to stand by Kurt. M studied us a minute, head tilted to the side. He kicked off his boots. It was weird. I couldn't take my eyes off his naked feet as he rounded us in a semi-circle, coming close. A sound, then, resonant and low—the sonofabitch was growling. My eyes snapped up.

For a moment all I saw was M, rising from a pool of mud. Grey rivers ran down his torso, meeting at the narrows between his thighs. He peered at me through the thick runoff of his hair. Falling to a crouch, he slunk forward dripping, sinews of his arms and legs taut beneath his skin. What the hell. I blinked, whipping my head toward Kurt, who was watching me with a little half-smile. I scowled down at myself. I had a goddamn hard-on.

M stood poised with his camera in one hand, eyes narrowed. "Please—on the floor, Mr. Randolph." He gestured to the space immediately in front of Kurt. His voice was rich, musical—somewhere between baritone and bass. I followed its directions, a muscle twitching between my shoulder blades. As he arranged us, he stopped speaking. A swath of his hair had escaped the braid, and it trailed over my arm, raising gooseflesh. It smelled faintly of incense. I tried to resist looking up at Kurt to see if any of this was getting to him.

"You are fighting me, Ben," said M, laying my cheek along the curve of Kurt's hairy calf. He paused, hand cupping my neck.

"He likes girls," interjected Kurt, and the photographer's eyes rose very slowly. It reminded me of a cocking pistol hammer. I felt Kurt's prick go a little soft against my shoulder.

M's hand traced my throat and he moved back, started using the camera. But I felt him sliding bare against my chest, fingers like spidery bones between my ribs. Every snap of the shutter was a twinge in my gut that had started lower down. It couldn't have been more than a minute or two before he broke to set up the next shot, but I was slick with sweat. I got up and grabbed my robe. "Going for a piss," I muttered over my shoulder.

In the men's room I doused my head, squeezing my eyes closed. The splash of the water was too loud in the sink's metal bowl. Something cool and dry passed down my spine and I gasped, groping for a towel. My hand closed over cloth. I could've sworn I'd felt fingers, but the mirror proved me paranoid. "Horatio," I admonished my reflection, "you have the fucking shakes." I patted my face dry, and took some deep breaths.

Back in the studio it was dark. M was working Kurt with movement and flashes. Three claps rang out in quick succession. "Tu vois?" The sound of feet tapping the tile floor. "Non." Three more claps in the original rhythm. "Then you thrust backward, extending the leg, yes? Good." Again, Kurt's feet, and a flash as he went airborne in a split leap, soaring over the crouched photographer. "Fine work," declared M, turning up one of the lamps. "A brief rest, Mr. Blackmore." Kurt stood breathing hard, hands on his hips. He nodded and took off down the hall.

M gestured for me and I helped him move in some draped risers. He brought out a large swatch of red velvet and overlaid the draperies, pooling the cloth at intervals.

"You like making guys sweat," I said.

Those clear eyes lanced me a second, then moved back to the fabric. I didn't think he was going to bother with an answer. Finally, his voice cut in smooth and sharp, like a scalpel. "There is a subtle difference, Mr. Randolph, between arousal and fear: a sensuous distinction in the smell. The two together can be… wholly intoxicating."

I frowned. He turned away, but I felt him hard against my back. Breath teased at my neck. It was frigid, no more than a ghost.

I shuddered, glaring at the shining snake of his braid. "What the hell's going on here?" I demanded between my teeth.

M swivelled, camera in hand. One of his brows rose, and the corner of his mouth followed it.

"Let's go," Kurt broke in, returning from the john. "I'm keen." He rubbed his hands together, punctuating the statement with a loud clap.

"Fort bien, Mr. Blackmore." The photographer's expression hadn't changed. He glanced from Kurt back to me, and I walked away, sliding out of my robe.

He set us up standing on the lowest riser, me in close behind Kurt. It wasn't working.

M sighed. "Step down, Mr. Randolph."

I did. He set the camera aside and peeled his sweater over his head. Off came the Levi's too, and there was nothing underneath.

I hadn't seen many athletes, let alone dancers, with a body like his. He was lean, all sinewy muscle with taut definition. Long, long legs. Jet pubic hair like a shock of ink against his skin. In the time it took me to register that much, my prick was a petrified branch. My gut clenched and I thought I'd be sick.

A thick scar ran down the center of his chest and another crossed it between his hipbones. I swallowed, concentrating on the vertical as he mounted the riser. M took hold of Kurt's waist from behind. He propelled him backwards so their bodies met length for length. Kurt's hips quivered a bit; he was enjoying the hell out of this. "Reach, Mr. Blackmore," rumbled the photographer, and he ran his fingers under Kurt's triceps, lifting them higher until both their arms were extended forward, muscles standing rigid beneath the skin.

M turned his head to me, resting it a moment on Kurt's shoulder. "Comme ça, Benjamin—this is the line I want. You must come in tight, be as one body. You are an actor; convince the camera you desire him." His hands trailed down and he dug into Kurt's pecs, thrusting forward with his hips and nearly forcing him off his toes. With his tongue he traced a path from deltoid to neck, and Kurt gasped. "You see?" said M, stepping back. "And if this gives you trouble," he added, gesturing to his hard cock, "move in closer. Mr. Blackmore will not object, I don't think." He drew a finger down Kurt's spine and they both laughed.

I was shaking as I stepped up on the riser again. M placed one hand in the small of my back, positioning me against Kurt. With his other he drew my dick up against my stomach, and then he pressed us together. The jism had begun to ooze, no more than a drop or two, but I could feel it. So could Kurt, I was sure. The photographer lifted my chin, his lids heavy over his eyes. "It is merely a gage of your pleasure, Mr. Randolph, that is all." And he slipped away to begin stalking us through the lens again. I think we gave him a good show.

Afterwards I sat in the dressing room in my dungarees and a T-shirt, holding one shoe in my hand and staring off into space.

"You okay?" asked Kurt, pulling a sweater over his head. I must've muttered something in response. He came over and ran a hand back and forth over my crew cut. "Wanna go for a beer?"

I shook my head.

"M's gonna lock up. Maybe you should talk to him, Bennie."

"Maybe."

He turned to go, thrusting his head back round the locker row at the last second. "I'll call you tomorrow, Ben." I nodded, and he was gone.

M was stowing film capsules in his camera bag, an unlit cigarillo suspended between his teeth. He looked up briefly when I entered the studio and then turned back to his work, taking a soft cloth to the camera lens.

I walked up as close as I dared. He set camera and cloth down beside him, and pocketed the cigarillo. Propping himself on the table, he inclined his head sideways. I had his full attention. I shook my head, almost laughing at myself. My eyes trained themselves on his feet; he still hadn't pulled his boots back on. "I have no idea what to say to you."

"Why say anything?" M folded his arms over his chest.

I cleared my throat. "You're one cool sonofabitch, aren't you."

His lips curled, and he pushed air through his nose. "You mean to ask, Mr. Randolph, if I am sincere in my art, and was I in fact trying to seduce you this evening?"

My bottom jaw jutted forward, but no sound came out.

Still smiling, M took up the camera, placing it in the bag with the rest of his stuff. He slung the strap over his shoulder and stood gazing down at me a long moment.

Taking my face in his hands, he lay his mouth over mine, pulling at my lips with his teeth. That stray lock of hair brushed my cheek as he slid nearer my ear. "Sometimes, Benjamin, we seduce ourselves."

He ushered me to the door, a firm hand on my back, and let me out on the street. "Flights of angels, sweet prince," I heard from behind the closing portal.

I started, spinning around, but he was gone. Again I shook my head. "Thanks," I told the door. Then, quietly, I began to laugh.