“Look, I’m doing my best. He’s only been in L.A. for like, two months, and aside from his modeling shots, most of his recent pictures are of food.”
“Food? Gah, it just keeps getting worse.”
“He’s got a shit-ton of Insta followers. SPG must be promoting him like crazy,” Lucia says.
“He’s their new poster boy.”
“They’ve got him selling seltzer, blazers, and frumpy, flesh-colored sandals.”
“Have you seen his feet? They’re gorgeous.”
“Yeah, he could leave his Jesus sandals under my bed,” she agrees.
“Speaking of which, any boyfriends, daddies, or male companions?”
“The only man who shows up regularly is Elliot,” she says.
“Elliot?” I am aghast.
“Elliot might be his only connection to L.A.”
“How tragic. What’s their relationship?”
“Seems platonic, at least on Adam’s side. Elliot always has that slightly deranged look about him. He reminds me of that ferret I once had. A highly disorganized animal.”
“Well, this is a starting point,” I tell her as I pull my Malibu up to the curb where a valet waits. I leave the car running and cross over to open Lucia’s door for her. My mother would roll over in her grave if I didn’t. She takes my hand like a Hollywood starlet, and I dutifully escort her inside.
The show, with the self-important titleA Generation Arrested, is being held at a venue called The Art Department on Alameda. The area used to be authentically seedy and exciting, but gentrification has made it somewhat bland and hardly affordable for anyone making less than 100K a year. I rarely come here anymore if I can help it, but alas, duty calls. Elliot is here already, preening next to a life-sized photograph of Adam while he gestures to a small crowd of trustafarian Bohemes in an affected way, likely trying to hide the fact that he has not a single original thought in his head.
“Elliot,” I call, braving the stench of patchouli and body odor that hovers like a fog around them.
“Cassius, Lucia,” he grumbles. His lips draw back in a garish smile that looks more like a sneer, and he tosses his head to free his prominent brow of a limp, unwashed forelock. “You should have told me you were coming. Or warned me,” he says in his fake, vaguely European accent.
“It’s so good to see you too,” I reply, giving him air kisses. My attention is already attuned to the photograph. Taken next to a floor-to-ceiling window, Adam is awash in natural light while slightly reclined on some bit of cheap furniture that’s been draped in black velvet. One knee is slung carelessly over the arm of the chair while the other extends toward the corner of the frame. His feet are bare, which only adds to the intimacy of the portrait. His loose-fitting trousers drape like folds of silk across his elegant form, and his tank shows off a set of finely sculpted arms. From the artful arrangement of his coltish limbs to his wistful expression, he appears in a state of suspension, caught in those few precious years between youth and manhood, not yet jaded by the world. Innocent, trusting, open. Begging to be guided. Perhaps even… instructed?
“Who’s the model?” I ask.
Elliot’s eyes shift toward the photograph in a calculating way. “Oh him? Nobody you’d know. Or care to know.”
“Really? He looks familiar.”
“I’m sure he’s not.”
“Something about the eyes reminds me of…” I turn to Lucia. “What was his name? The self-proclaimed heterosexual? Joseph? Josiah?Jonathan?” At the mention of the name, Elliot’s thin lips constrict into the shape of a tiny anus.
Lucia tilts her head. “Now that you mention it, he does resemble Jonathan a little. Handsome devil. Not a bad angle to him. And such impressive orgasms. Whatever became of him, Elliot?”
Elliot is too flustered to answer so I offer my own intel. “Last I heard, he shut down his OnlyFans account and moved to Sacramento where he’s cultivating his own strain of marijuana. That was some months ago. Have you heard from him lately, Ell?”
“No, I haven’t,” he says tightly.
“But you two used to beso close.”
Elliot used to film Jonathan while he smoked weed and masturbated on camera. Jonathan’s money shots were magnificent. Cumeverywhere.
“If you’ve come here to tease me, you can see yourself right out the door,” Elliot snaps prissily.
I clap him on his bony back. “Elliot dear, don’t take everything so personal. We’re just catching up. Tell me about this beauty you have here. Is he your new muse?”
