Using

CW: Mature themes, substance abuse

His name was Jerry. He had a profile on Grindr.

The artist messaged.

“Is it short for Gerald?” he typed out. Then he hit send and waited. He felt stupid for asking. It was too intimate for a first exchange.

Finally, the answer came.

“Jeremiah. I don’t usually tell people that.”

“Nice to meet you, Jeremiah.”

The artist scrolled yet again through the photos. They were amateurish, at best. Unattractive was a better description. A series of contrived sexy poses. Lips puckered, eyes batted. A hint of pubic hair peeking above low-slung sweatpants. A dick pic. The artist stared at that one longer than he cared to, allowing his mind to wander.

“Jerry.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“It’s $100 to fuck. And you have to wear a condom.”

“That’s not what I’m looking for.”

“Ok. What are you looking for?”

The artist began to scroll again, stopping on another image this time. It was slightly out of focus. Jerry sat on the edge of what looked like a cheap futon. He was smiling, not trying to hide his buck teeth. His bangs were cut short and straight across his forehead. He was bare chested. Rail thin and sallow skinned. The complexion of someone who spends almost no time in the light of day. He had the sinewy muscles and sunken chest of a heroin addict, which was appropriate. But it was his eyes that wouldn’t let go of the artist. Dark brown and sadder than any eyes he’d ever seen before, despite the smile on his lips.

“I want to draw you.”

“LOL! That’s some pervy shit.”

“Seriously. I’m looking for a male model. Mostly portraits, but maybe some nudes too. I’m an artist. You may have heard of me.”

“Is your name Banksy?”

“No.”

“Then I haven’t heard of you.”

“I’ll pay you for your time. How old are you?”

“23. How old are you?”

“I’m sixty-seven. How old are you really?”

“19.”

“I’ll pay you the $100. All you have to do is sit for me.”

“Whatever gets you off, old man.”

That was followed by a winky emoji.

***

The artist drove his Jaguar to the corner of Frankford Avenue and Ann Street in Kensington. Jerry was sitting on the curb in front of a church and across the street from a methadone clinic. Litter spilled out of a nearby trashcan and gathered in the storm drain. He was alone.

The artist stopped and rolled down his window.

“Jerry?”

Jerry nodded and glanced up and down the street, like he was nervous.

“Nice car.”

“Get in.” The artist unlocked the passenger side door. “Do you have a bag or anything?”

“No. I travel light. Where are we headed?”

“I live in Rittenhouse. It’s just a couple of miles.”

“I know where it is. Lots of old, rich queens in Rittenhouse.” Jerry laughed.

The artist didn’t say anything. They drove in silence for a while until Jerry reached over and turned on the radio. He spun the dial, settling on 106.3 FM. He turned up the techno beat. Then he put his hand on the artist’s thigh and started to caress it gently.

“You like that? Does that feel good?”

“That’s not what this is about. Like I said.” Jerry pulled his hand away. The artist looked across the center console at Jerry. “There's something special about your eyes.”

“Jesus Christ. Don’t say romantic shit like that.”

“It’s true.”

They drove the rest of the way without saying anything more, the techno beat blaring. 

***

The artist unlocked the front door of the four-story brick townhouse.

“Come on in.”

Jerry stepped into the plush foyer with its floral-patterned wallpaper.

“I like your place.”

“Thank you. I’ve spent a long time curating it.”

“Curating?”

“Putting it together. Figuring out what belongs. The things I find beautiful.”

“Do I belong?"

"We'll see, won't we?”

"Uh huh. Are these your drawings?”

“Some of them.”

“They’re good. How about this one?”

The artist chuckled.

“I wish. That’s a Picasso.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

For a moment, the artist took in the sketch. A few simple lines forming the curves of a woman’s breasts and thighs.

“How much is it worth?”

“I don’t know, exactly. A lot, I imagine.”

“I could do that, I bet. It doesn’t look so hard.”

The artist motioned toward the stairs. “My studio is just upstairs.”

The artist went first. Jerry followed. On the third floor, the artist opened a door to a small room. Paints and charcoal pencils cluttered every surface. Half-finished canvasses leaned against every inch of wall.

“So, what now?”

“Now I draw you.”

Jerry started to take off his shirt.

“Not yet. Put that back on. I just want to draw your face. Let's start with a basic portrait." The artist pointed toward a wooden stool. "Sit there.” Jerry did as he was told.

“Should I smile?”

“You should do whatever you want.”

Jerry didn’t smile.

The artist sat across the room. He picked up a large pad of paper and peeled off the top sheet. Then he thoughtfully selected a charcoal pencil and began to work, his eyes darting quickly between the canvas and Jerry. The artist’s hands moved fluidly across the pad.

“I need to scratch my arm.”

“That’s fine.” The artist paused his work.

The pale skin of Jerry’s forearm was scabbed with needle tracks. Jerry scratched. A scab opened, and a bright red drop of blood gathered on the surface.

“You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

“Your arm is bleeding.” The artist pointed at the inside of Jerry’s elbow. Jerry glanced down and saw the blood, which was beginning to trickle along the ridge of a thin blue vein.

“Oh, shit.” Jerry put his arm to his lips and cleaned the blood with his tongue. "This happens sometimes," Jerry mumbled.

The artist again began to work.

“Done.”

“With what?”

“My first sketch.”

“That was fast.”

The artist tore the sheet from the pad and held it up so Jerry could see it. Curved lines forming the almond-shaped head, the straight bangs, the buckteeth, the sad eyes.

“You made me look kind of ugly.”

The artist considered. "I'm still searching for the beautiful parts. It's going to take some time."

***

The artist messaged.

“Come over? Same arrangement as last time. I'd like to draw you again."

“You’re fucking crazy, old man.”

“Is that a no?”

“$100”

“Fine.”

“I’ll be at the same place.”

***

Jerry was there under the streetlight when the artist pulled up. He wore cut off jean shorts and a fishnet shirt that showed his nipples. His lips were painted red. There were others too. A man and a woman, the artist thought. He wasn’t sure though. They disappeared into the shadows before he could get a good look. Jerry’s head was bowed to his chest. He wasn't moving.

The artist parked the car and stepped out onto the street. He held the car door in one hand and peered over the roof toward the dimly lit sidewalk.

“Hello?” he called out.

Whoever the others were, they had vanished into the dark recesses. The street was empty and quiet. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance. He stepped around the car and stood over Jerry. A needle hung from his arm. He was bleeding again.

“Oh, Jerry. What have you done to yourself?”

Jerry mumbled something that the artist couldn’t understand.

The artist picked Jerry up from the curb. He weighed almost nothing. He placed Jerry in the passenger seat and then stepped around the car and got in.

“Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”

Jerry didn’t answer. The artist spoke louder.

“Jerry?”

“What?”

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Why would I want that?”

“You overdosed. You have a needle hanging out of your arm.” The needle was still there. The artist hadn't removed it. Jerry opened his eyes, the narrowest of slits. Then he indelicately yanked the needle from his vein.

“Just a little party is all.”

“I just want to make sure you’re not going to die.”

“I’m not gonna die.”

On the road from Kensington to Rittenhouse, Jerry again put his hand on the artist’s thigh. It sat limply, not moving. And this time the artist let him keep it there.

***

“Should I just sit here again? Like I did last time?” Jerry had come to somewhat, but his eyes were still glassy. The artist let his gaze wander.

“I want you to take off your shirt.”

Jerry managed a coy smile and took off the fishnet shirt. He let it slip from his fingers and fall at his feet.

“Now we’re talking.”

“I wish you wouldn’t put that stuff in your body.”

“What stuff.”

“That poison.”

“Ok, dad. Whatever you say.”

Jerry held his arms above his head. With one hand, he gripped the opposing forearm. The hair in his pits was wispy and almost blonde. His nipples were like pink dimes.

“Stay just like that.”

“Like this?”

The artist nodded. He tore back another sheet from the pad and this time searched out a few pastels from his set. Maroons and greys and shades of pink.

“My price has gone up. It’s two hundred now.”

“You said one hundred.”

“Yeah, well, shit’s changed.”

The artist's eyes flicked up and down beneath bushy grey eyebrows. He crossed his legs while he worked. Then he uncrossed them. He shifted slightly in his seat and picked up the dark grey pastel and put it to the paper, made a few last marks.

“Done.”

The artist turned the sheet around and showed it to Jerry.

“You made me look evil.”

“Not evil. Angry.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want to do a few more. Every time I draw you, I see something new."

"It's your money."

The artist tore a page and began another sketch.

"It's late. You can spend the night, if you want.”

“That's not going to happen.”

***

The artist messaged.

“I can’t stop thinking about you. I need to draw you again.”

“It’s $500 now.”

“Ok. But I don’t want to waste my time again. Are you using?”

No reply.

“I can pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be in the same spot.”

When the artist pulled up, the others were there again. This time they lingered. There were definitely two of them, but he’d been wrong about the woman. They were both men. The streetlight cast shadows across their faces.

“This is Angel.” Jerry patted one of the men on the back. The other one, bigger, older, with a ponytail and a ragged trench coat, stepped away from the car. “I told him about you. He wants you to draw him.”

“Nice to meet you, Angel.”

“How much will you pay me to let you draw me?” Angel’s voice was raspy, and he swayed unsteadily as he spoke.

“That’s kind of you, Angel. But I’m not interested.”

“I’m way better looking than this fucking guy,” Angel said, hitting Jerry on the shoulder. “Just look at those teeth. He's hideous.”

“I don’t think he’s hideous.”

“Fine. How about I suck your dick instead? Fifty bucks.”

“Come on, Jerry. Let’s go.” The artist rolled up the window of the Jaguar. Jerry opened the door and got in. The artist pulled away.

***

“How do you want me this time?”

“I want you naked.”

“You’re the boss.”

Jerry was wearing the same shirt he’d worn the other night. He removed it. Then he unzipped his jeans and peeled them off. He wasn’t wearing underwear. His legs were narrow and straight. There was a gap between his thighs.

“Do you like it?” Jerry grabbed his uncircumcised penis and shook it at the artist. “Do you like my cock?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Of course, you do, you old queen. You’re just like the rest of them.” Jerry stroked his penis halfway to erection. The artist watched him do it.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Jerry turned slowly around, shaking his hips as he did. A sort of awkward burlesque. Then he bent over and with his hands parted the cheeks of his ass. “That’s what you’re after, isn’t it?”

“Stay just like that.”

“Whatever you say.”

The artist tore back another sheet of paper from the pad and began to sketch. He traced the curve of Jerry’s back, penciled the thin hairs of his upper thighs, painted the star of his anus. When the artist was done, he turned the canvas around and showed it again to his muse.

For a long moment, Jerry studied the drawing.

The artist broke the silence.

“You look so graceful."

Jerry laughed. "What exactly? My asshole?"

"The whole of you.”

There was a long silence. Then the artist said, “I had an old friend over the other evening. I showed her my drawings of you. She said it’s a study in love.” He paused. “I think she’s right.”

“Love?” Jerry laughed a cruel sort of laugh. “I don’t love you.”

The artist turned away.

"I expected not." He put down his pencils and set the pad on the floor. “I’m ready now.”

“For what?”

“To fuck you, as you so inelegantly like to put it.”

Jerry sat on the stool and began to put his pants back on.

“Yeah. I’m afraid there’s not time for that, old man.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can I have the painting?”

“This one?”

“Uh huh.”

“Of course. But it’s just for you. Nobody else can see it.” Jerry nodded. The artist handed Jerry the large sheet of paper. Jerry held it up and studied it again. Then he folded it in half, creasing it. The artist winced.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what? This?”

Jerry folded it again, creasing it even harder this time, licking his fingers for emphasis.

“I said I was ready to fuck. Are you a whore or not? Take your clothes off.” His voice was raised. There was an edge to it.

There was a bang from downstairs, the sound of the heavy wooden door slamming shut.

“That sounds like them now."

"Sounds like who, Jerry?"

“Angel and Rodney. I left the door unlocked for them.”

The artist leapt to his feet. He began to walk quickly to the door of his studio.

“What have you done?”

The artist didn't wait for an answer. He ran down the three flights of stairs. When he stepped into his living room, he was out of breath. Angel and the man with the ponytail stood on the thick Persian carpeting beneath the recessed lighting. The artist could only think how out of place, how uncurated they looked. Tucked under Angel’s arm was the Picasso.

“You remember my friends.”

Jerry was behind him.

The artist turned and looked at the young man with the buck teeth and the straight bangs and the sad eyes. “Why are you doing this to me, Jeremiah?”

“Jeremiah? What kind of stupid name is that?”

Jerry and Angel and Rodney, laughed. An inside joke.

“If you call the cops, I’ll show them this drawing you did of my asshole, you fucking pervert.” Jerry patted the pocket of his pants, which bulged with the folded sheet.

“So you were just using me? This whole time?”

A flush of anger swept across Jerry’s face. His brow furrowed. He gritted his teeth.

“Me using you? I’m sixteen! That makes me a minor. So you see, old man, you were using me!”

“You said you were older.”

“I lied. I do that a lot, turns out. But you already knew that. Like when I said I was twenty-three."

Jerry and Angel and the man with the ponytail opened the front door.

We’ll be taking this too,” Angel said with a sneer, picking up the keys to the Jaguar and stepping out into the quiet night.

The door slammed shut and the house fell silent.

The artist exhaled. He listened to the sound of the Jaguar’s engine turning over and the whine of the wheels on the pavement.

Then he locked the front door and climbed the three flights of stairs to his studio. He searched through the pile of sketches and paintings, which had grown tall over the course of the sessions. At last, he found what he was looking for. The first portrait he’d done. The one Jerry had said made him look ugly.

He returned to his living room and there, in the spot left absent by the Picasso, he carefully hung the one of Jerry.