the fullness of his lower lip, the slight look of pout, the languid slouch of the pelvis.
Inside the cover, on the very first page, under a title that said, âRod the Rock,â the same man stood facing the camera, naked this time, with his private parts showing, so that they could hardly be called private at all any more. Newell had seen only a few penises, mostly relatives and boys in gym, none as large as this, and he stared at it, arched forward from Rod the Rockâs thick thighs, Rod staring out at Newell as if inviting him to touch it, to find a way to reach into the paper and touch it.
This was different from what Newell had done in Pastel, different from fumbling with his zipper in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet having some fantasy about Little Joe Cartwright from Bonanza, and hoping Flora stayed close enough to the TV that she couldnât hear the racket he was making. Afterward, straightening the jeans on his narrow hips, heâd head off to supper where Flora waited at the table with her mild blue eyes, uncurious expression, and open can of Pabst.
Here what excited him was a fixed object, a picture, floating in space. When he read the words again, âRod the Rock,â when he looked at the shape of the manâs body, the mass of it, calling up some feeling, Newell felt himself as if he were dissolving into the picture, as if the world of that image were more vivid than the room on Barracks Street where the ceiling fan turned slowly. For a long time Newell hardly thought about where he was at all; he sat without stirring from the chair, only turning the pages, daring nothing more than to run his fingers over each page before he turned to the next, the gesture like a caress, as though he were actually laying his hands on this manâs skin.
He had been breathing carefully, as though walking on a wire where the faintest breath could send him off balance; he understood instinctively, even as early as that, the need to gauge his pleasure carefully, to conserve it in order to draw it out. He closed the magazine and stood. From outside, car horns, the hooting laughter of someone on the street, music from one of the opposite balconies; he recognized the song and it made him smile, âI Need a Manâ by Grace Jones.
He stared down at the magazine, frightened some by the feelings it aroused in him. He had played with one of his cousins once, in Pastel, a boy his own size named Joel, the same age as Newell, with the same family looks, but that had been only once, and Joel so resembled Newell that the act was almost like masturbation. All the rest had been only speculation, longing. He could hardly believewhat he saw on these pages; images that had been in his head all this time. It was as if he had foreseen this as his future, because he had foreseen this man, or at least someone who would pose like him, wearing nothing, or so little as to be nothing, page after page. Newell opened the magazine to the pictures on the sawhorse, the pictures in the locker room, Rod dressed in leather. The images rushed through him and he took the magazine to the bathroom with him and lay it on the back of the toilet. As powerful as the feeling of arousal was the strangeness of the moment. Newell felt as if he knew the picture-man completely, had always known him, and furthermore wanted to lie down with him and be covered by him and run hands along him and gaze into his face. From picture to picture, from page to page, the pose changed, but the expression was always the same, always fixed on the camera, always impassive, grave, self-assured to the point of arrogance; and what was disturbing was that Newell wanted him to have exactly that look. Since Rod the Rock could have anything he wanted, it was fitting he should express no desire at all, except, maybe, a wish to reveal himself again and again.
When Newell came out of the bathroom and put the magazine away, in the bottom of the wardrobe out of sight,
Inside the cover, on the very first page, under a title that said, âRod the Rock,â the same man stood facing the camera, naked this time, with his private parts showing, so that they could hardly be called private at all any more. Newell had seen only a few penises, mostly relatives and boys in gym, none as large as this, and he stared at it, arched forward from Rod the Rockâs thick thighs, Rod staring out at Newell as if inviting him to touch it, to find a way to reach into the paper and touch it.
This was different from what Newell had done in Pastel, different from fumbling with his zipper in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet having some fantasy about Little Joe Cartwright from Bonanza, and hoping Flora stayed close enough to the TV that she couldnât hear the racket he was making. Afterward, straightening the jeans on his narrow hips, heâd head off to supper where Flora waited at the table with her mild blue eyes, uncurious expression, and open can of Pabst.
Here what excited him was a fixed object, a picture, floating in space. When he read the words again, âRod the Rock,â when he looked at the shape of the manâs body, the mass of it, calling up some feeling, Newell felt himself as if he were dissolving into the picture, as if the world of that image were more vivid than the room on Barracks Street where the ceiling fan turned slowly. For a long time Newell hardly thought about where he was at all; he sat without stirring from the chair, only turning the pages, daring nothing more than to run his fingers over each page before he turned to the next, the gesture like a caress, as though he were actually laying his hands on this manâs skin.
He had been breathing carefully, as though walking on a wire where the faintest breath could send him off balance; he understood instinctively, even as early as that, the need to gauge his pleasure carefully, to conserve it in order to draw it out. He closed the magazine and stood. From outside, car horns, the hooting laughter of someone on the street, music from one of the opposite balconies; he recognized the song and it made him smile, âI Need a Manâ by Grace Jones.
He stared down at the magazine, frightened some by the feelings it aroused in him. He had played with one of his cousins once, in Pastel, a boy his own size named Joel, the same age as Newell, with the same family looks, but that had been only once, and Joel so resembled Newell that the act was almost like masturbation. All the rest had been only speculation, longing. He could hardly believewhat he saw on these pages; images that had been in his head all this time. It was as if he had foreseen this as his future, because he had foreseen this man, or at least someone who would pose like him, wearing nothing, or so little as to be nothing, page after page. Newell opened the magazine to the pictures on the sawhorse, the pictures in the locker room, Rod dressed in leather. The images rushed through him and he took the magazine to the bathroom with him and lay it on the back of the toilet. As powerful as the feeling of arousal was the strangeness of the moment. Newell felt as if he knew the picture-man completely, had always known him, and furthermore wanted to lie down with him and be covered by him and run hands along him and gaze into his face. From picture to picture, from page to page, the pose changed, but the expression was always the same, always fixed on the camera, always impassive, grave, self-assured to the point of arrogance; and what was disturbing was that Newell wanted him to have exactly that look. Since Rod the Rock could have anything he wanted, it was fitting he should express no desire at all, except, maybe, a wish to reveal himself again and again.
When Newell came out of the bathroom and put the magazine away, in the bottom of the wardrobe out of sight,
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