Boy Gallery

Champagne and the light tinkling of conversation are like drugs to the rich, maybe it makes them feel less alone to drink in bright spaces with a soundtrack of other people as a cushion. I can’t afford to attend the gallery even though I live just a few blocks away. Instead I get dressed in slacks that flatter my ass and prominently display my left-lying bulge, a shirt tight enough to outline my pecs which I unbutton just below the modesty line, and I throw on a black peacoat that makes me look like a daytrader on a night-walk. I let my hair be slightly wild. I smile at the door and say, “I’m an associate of you-know-who and didn’t I just see such-and-such inside?” The kid at the door with his clipboard and guest list is young enough to be dazzled by this smiling stranger whose shirt is as tight as a second skin and whose trousers are twitching before him, who’s saying all the right things and projecting wealth and sociability like a forcefield. Of course he lets me in.

A girl with a blank expression takes my coat and hands me a ticket, then gestures for another to hand me a glass of champagne. They’re both wearing short black dresses over their pale skin.

I sip champagne with one hand and put the other in my pocket. It’s good to keep a hand in your pocket, adds an air of restraint.

In the first room of the gallery there aren’t too many people. A dozen or so. Most are watching, but few are interested. A couple, two men, hang off of each other as if propping the other up under some great personal gravity. One sends text messages while the other runs the rim of his champagne glass over his lower lip over and over. Before us is a young Latino man, presumably in his twenties, behind glass. He stands perfectly still in his glass box as wisps of steam surround him. He drips sweat in the heated box and it makes his white trunks cling to his body and turn transparent, outlining his heavy genitals. Precisely every five minutes he turns, allowing the viewer a full 360 degree view of his body every fifteen minutes. After an hour he leaves the box to cool down, rehydrate, and spectators are offered an opportunity to drink the sweat from his body for a sizable fee. His white trunks, stark against his olive skin, are soaked through with sweat and are also for sale. The rich have found a way to sell sweat to each other.

The young man stands barefoot on the cool tile floor and flexes his lean muscles boredly as a husky gentleman in a designer suit kneels before him and licks a freshly dripped trail of salty sweat from the young man’s thigh. The gentleman’s tongue quivers and the young man’s cock involuntarily—perhaps—jumps in his soaked-through underwear. The gentleman reaches up to touch it and the younger man purses his lush lips and gently pushes the gentleman’s hand away. Touching is frowned upon. Touching is a separate transaction. The gentleman nods, but his glassy eyes are half full of tears.

I move on to the next room, but not before making eyes with the young man. He cocks his head a little as if he doesn’t know what to make of me, I grin and shrug. I move on.

In the next room there is a naked redhead wearing a bridle and harness. He crawls from one side of the wide room to the other and with each movement, the tailed buttplug in his ass swishes behind him. Projected on the wall behind him is a looping video of a horse running free across a plain. The redhead looks far from free.

I get close enough to see the freckles on his ass cheeks, down the small of his back, and on his shoulders. I inadvertently get close enough to hear a man nearby speaking to a friend as he watches the redhead complete his circuit for the umpteenth time.

“He needs a good fuck, I think,” the man says. He’s wearing an expensive watch on the wrist of the hand he uses to discreetly rub his cock over his pinstripe pants. “Yes, I think this boy needs me to fuck his ginger brains out. I’d keep the saddle on too. Hot little fucker…”

The man’s friend just watches the redhead without comment, but is also hard.

The redhead absently chews the bit in his mouth, drooling slightly over it. His makeshift tail swishes and he turns around when he reaches the wall. His dick swings limp between his legs.

“…get on top of him and ride his tight little snatch,” says the man with the expensive watch.

I move on.

In the next room there’s a man wearing little white angel wings and reclining in a four post bed on white silk sheets. His dark skin is in sharp contrast to the whiteness all around him. He wears a white jockstrap with eyelets and golden ribbon laced through them. He is obscenely hard.

A woman with a severe haircut stands beside a man, whispering into his ear as the both of them watch the dark-skinned man lounge. The watching-man whimpers at something the woman says into his ear. He blushes scarlet and puts his hands over his crotch. The woman laughs and says something else. The man never takes his eyes off of the relaxing angel, never looks away, not even as the whispers of the woman beside him grow louder and harsher.

The white of the jockstrap darkens at the tip of the angel’s cock after a while. He brings a finger down to it and pulls away a long thread of precum. He smiles to himself, refusing to acknowledge anyone else in the room. I lick my lips. I move on.

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