Ganymede
by George Gauthier
Chapter 5
The Golden Boy of Concupiscence
My career as a fashion model has really taken off. These days I work photo shoots two or three days a week, which is about the most I can fit into my busy schedule since I also perform my pole dancing cum acrobat cum contortionist act at Something Else Again, the city's trendiest gay watering hole, on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings. You never want to quit your day job for side gigs which might fizzle out at any moment. So you can still catch my athletic, acrobatic, exotic, and erotic pole dance act which has won the loyal and enthusiastic approval of the gay community in our fair city.
Now what I do on stage is not your typical pole dance, brazen and lewd poses done to loud music with an insistent beat. On the contrary, I move slowly, to soft music, changing positions smoothly, holding each pose momentarily to give the audience time to fully take in the vision of youthful male pulchritude before them, which I present for their delectation and titillation, before gliding into the next pose whether hanging upside down, slantwise or straight out from the pole – feats which only look easy due to the tripled strength conferred on me by the Olympians three millennia ago (partly to protect me during vigorous sex play with the lusty Greek gods of yore).
My act is at once athletic and erotic and, I like to think, tastefully artistic. Some poses appear to be lewd or naughty, but only from a particular angle. I perform on a small stage in the middle of the room, with the audience standing all around. Inevitably a pose will present my booty directly to the audience or would give the audience a straight on look at the generative organs at the fork of my legs, aka my dangly bits, though I never disgrace myself with an erection. That would be crossing the line into on-stage smut.
My poses highlight the suppleness and strength of the slender nude and glabrous physique of a beautiful youth, a sight which cannot but arouse the interest and often set the hearts racing of males who fancy supremely pretty boys such as myself, which is no idle brag, for did not the poet Homer sing my praises as the most beauteous youth born of mortals? How selfish and churlish then it would be if I did not freely share with the world at large the physical beauty conferred on me by a kindly Mother Nature?
I am aware that there are those who take a contrary view – self-described conscientious, god-fearing, and upright men who don't see it that way at all, who think it would be their duty to take a switch to me and give me a sound thrashing for my predilection for a shameless and sinful display of a nude male body, especially by someone known to be a bum boy if not actually a rent boy.
What my two jobs have in common is that I parade around in public in a state of nature, i.e. nude or naked, without a stitch on, whether up on stage at the club or out and about for the fashion shoots which can take place almost anywhere, often outdoors in a public venue with a crowd of passersby standing behind the rope, ogling me as I pose with fashion models, typically anorectic young ladies, who actually wear the designer clothes we are trying to publicize. I am just the naked or near-naked eye candy which attracts the attention of prospective customers.
A particularly enjoyable photo shoot had nothing at all to do with the world of fashion. Instead I posed for artsy photographs taken solely for their own sake or rather the emotions such pictures arouse, and I use that word advisedly. My agent explained that the photographer I would pose for, Ivan Pavlichenko, was internationally famous for capturing in his camera the ephemeral beauty of the youthful male, thus conferring a degree of immortality on his subjects in hard cover books, glossy magazines, or on-line web sites.
Forty-something and graying at the temples but energetic and with a friendly and pleasant manner, Ivan started off by complimenting me on my looks.
"My oh my! I have photographed many lovely boys but never one to match you, Troy. You are unique, my dear boy."
"Thanks but you haven't seen my boyfriend Kyle who quite good looking in his own right though he's taller than I am and has auburn hair and sky blue eyes, so I may not be so unique as all that."
I showed him a snapshot of Kyle on my phone. That set the man to drooling, dreaming of a fantastic double shoot with both of us in frame.
My best pictures were sets of poses with my body sprayed head to toe with gold dust allowing me to portray a mythological figure, the golden boy of concupiscence whom everyone desires. That was a phrase actually used in ancient times to describe Ganymede the cupbearer and paramour of Zeus, that is my own self. Oh, the irony of it.
The photographer's cute assistant, an effeminate looking kid named Billy Fletcher, took me into the courtyard – really a glorified airshaft outside – and secured my wrists in cuffs dangling from the a rail.
"I'm strung up like a prisoner in a dungeon." I said, shifting my feet on the plastic sheeting on which I stood in full view of the voyeurs at windows overlooking the activity. It is not every day that you saw one naked boy gilding another.
"It's for your own good, sir. No way you could hold your arms up for so long not when I have to do two coats and let the first dry in between. Now stand with your feet a little more than shoulder width apart so we can get at you properly." Meanwhile he was turning me this way and that, his hands lingering on my naked flesh rather longer than was strictly necessary.
On a wooden table along the wall were marshaled the tools and materials they would use on me: spray gun, brushes of various sizes, a colorless sticky fluid like a lacquer, gold dust, and short tubes for blowing the gold dust into those hard-to-get-at nooks and crannies of the human body.
"This is just the first coat. Oh, and the jet of the spray gun or the touch of the brush might tickle a little" Billy explained apologetically, as he let out a mischievous giggle, then turned to spray the mixture of gold dust and stickum liberally to my chest and back and arms and legs. That was just for starters, Billy gilded every centimeter of skin from my hairline to the soles of my feet, with careful attention to the shell of my ears, eyelids, cleavage, etc. Nor did Billy neglect to get in between my fingers and toes.
As I was a bit ticklish, I couldn't help twisting in my bondage as Billy applied the gilding via brush or spray to my armpits and along the chevron of my ribs and everywhere else. Billy was delighted to have this lovely body of mine under his control, to be able to touch it everywhere, to tickle it and make it pull and twist and turn as if I were a hapless prisoner under the lash. No wonder he was erect himself.
"Not to complain Ivan, but I think your assistant is enjoying his work maybe more than he should."
"Indeed he is, but can you really blame the boy? By now you must be aware of the effect you have on any male who appreciates a beautiful youth. Though I admit that Billy can be naughty, he is essentially a good kid and means well. I've known him for years as the kid from next door. His folks were not happy when they found out that Billy was gay. He looked to me for help during those difficult times. And no I never touched him. I let him explore his sexuality with boys his own age treating as a scapegrace but irrepressible nephew, a nice boy without a mean bone in his body."
"This is not our first such shoot of metal boy. You are to be gilded with gold dust. On the previous shoot we used powdered sliver on another youth, a raven haired beauty. The next one will be copper. After that, we shall see. Some metals are toxic or irritating to the skin."
"Don't be surprised when Billy gilds your genitals. His first step is to get the boy, er aroused and fully erect with the ball sac drawn up to his groin. That is so he won't miss any nooks and crannies and crevices in that area. As I can attest, my Billy is very good with his hands and his mouth. He'll have you rampant in no time."
As so it came to pass. As I started to leak Billy ran his thumb over the head to spread seminal fluid supposedly as a good base for the next step which was to spray paint the head and even on the inside the foreskin, finishing up with a squirt into the tiny piss slit, which he pinched open gently.
"Don't want to miss anywhere," he muttered unconvincingly. I just rolled my eyes at the boy's brazenness in handling my cock. I have to admit that Billy really had done a thorough job of it too. With my cock erected, it displayed a helmet as golden as the rest of my youthful male anatomy.
A theatrical throat clearing from his boss, and a wink from the cute assistant signaled him to move on.
Billy next had me bend over like I was submitting to a fuck and got the spray right into my ass crack and anus. He whispered for me to pooch out and dilate my ring just a bit please, to flatten it so that the gold dust would get into the tiniest interstices of the convolutions of my little brown pucker. Finally he stuck two fingers in the orifice and swirled the paint all around – just being thorough again. That almost brought me off as the invading digits sank in past the second knuckle and hit my joy spot.
"Urk!" I gurgled and flushed beneath the gilding.
That was the end of the fun and games. Within twenty minutes, the coating dried completely. Gilded all over, I had been transformed into the legendary golden boy of concupiscence, whom all desired.
Fans later enthused that my gilded physique suggested a classic sculpture. Others envied the paint on the golden boy of concupiscence because it could touch the beautiful youth everywhere simultaneously like a lover with a thousand fingers.
I was photographed in many poses, some like ballet stances, others like famous sculptures. There were playful shots with my hands in front of my hips, fingers pointing to my genitals with the cock only just starting to plump up, and with the merest tip of the head poking out from the sheath. Others showed my lithe torso turned this way or that or caught as if in mid stride. Shots from behind with arms held high and hands bent down toward my deltoids brought out the delightful play of the muscles in back, shoulders, and arms.
My small body is flexible and acrobatic as befits a professional contortionist. In one pose I propped my body up off the floor in a backwards arch. With feet flat on the deck and torso bent backwards, I extended my arms past my head and then back to the deck fingers pointing toward my feet, my body bent in a half circle, trembling with the effort.
In another series of shots I held a votive candle in the palm of either hand, eyes focussed on the flames. Ivan sometimes had me look at the camera, sometimes shyly, sometimes boldly challenging the viewers to admit how much they wanted to take me, to possess me carnally. All of the photos showed my golden skin stretched over taut muscle and fine bones, a lovely human animal rendered statuesque under the gold dust, a visual love poem, an incarnation or an avatar of physical beauty and youthful male sexuality.
As Ivan described it more fully: "
"No human being looks quite so deliciously naked as a smooth skinned lad, one in the first bloom of his youth with no overlay of extra muscle; no distracting and off-putting hairiness; slender limbs with veins just under the surface of the skin, not popping out grotesquely as with body builders. The slender thighs of a lad join at narrow hips, letting him strut his sprouting manhood. What can be more delicious than the freshness of a teenage boy whose sexual history might be measured in months rather than in years. So fresh, you just want to reach out and hold and stroke the proud manhood he has only recently learned to put to proper use."
Fans positively drooled over shots of my arousal. Now any boy's arousal is inherently dramatic as his cock starts to plump up, lift off, and to rotate through all angles from south to north while the hidden head slides slowly and suggestively out of its sheath to stand revealed in all its manly glory. A cock can take on dramatic highlights as when drop of seminal fluid forms at the tip. Flattering lighting can make the small fluid sphere glisten like a tiny diamond a foretaste of what came later when further seepage allows a string of seminal fluid to dangle half a meter between the legs. Ivan's shutter clicked rapidly to catch the moment when the breeze from an open window caught it and wafted it to one side. What a dramatic portrayal of masculine arousal that was.
Ivan took three hundred photos all told in two sessions. All the byplay in doing the shoot was captured on a complimentary 'Making Of...' video heartily appreciated by the purchasers. Candid shots of all this prep work were also made available for download. The public really liked the shots where I when I finally ejaculated shooting a silvery gism out of my gilded cock onto my belly. Which admittedly was pretty close to full on smut, but what can you do when you are caught up in the moment?
Afterwards, both photographer and his assistant Billy helped me scrub all that base paint and gold dust off, all three of us crowded in the shower stall, sponges and brushes, and hands on me everywhere, though no none of this activity was for the Making Of.. video. After we all dried off, as the photographer Ivan pulled rank on his assistant and insisted that only he would spread the soothing lotion over my lithe form.
"Awww, that is so unfair!" Billy complained to no avail.
My photo shoot was a smashing success, but my notoriety as the golden boy of concupiscence undercut my insistence that I never did porn. I supposed I would have to concede that what I did in front of Ivan's camera was soft core, saved from being hard core only by being solo. Ah, the things we do for our Art (and for worthy charities).
By the way my photographer Ivan is a distant relation of Lyudmila Pavlichenko, the famous sniper in the Red Army in WW II. She was credited with shooting 307 Germans plus two Romanians, and those were just her confirmed kills, shots witnessed by others. He toll of the enemy was even greater than the kills credited to Vasily Zaitsev, the sniper played by Jude Law in "Enemy at the Gates" a movie about the Battle of Stalingrad. Zaitsev killed 225 enemy soldiers before the explosion of a mortar shell injured his eyes. An ophthalmologist saved his vision so he took up his sniper rifle once again during the final drive on Berlin.
I myself spent the war years in Brazil in the state of Rio Grande do Sul, which had a large population of German immigrants, hence it counted as one of my Blond Lands. I had sailed from Europe just before the outbreak of the war. One thing I have learned in a long life is that you had better distance yourself from world-shaking events lest you get caught up in them. I finally left Brazil in 1955 during the political chaos which developed in that country. I also found the region increasingly uncongenial due to the influx of ex-Nazis, war criminals and fugitives from justice hiding in the Southern Cone of South America.
Thefts
One spring day Kyle came to my door, announced himself with his characteristic septuple knock, tapped the entry code on the door pad, and breezed in just as he had been doing since we became full-on lovers not just friends with benefits. These days the apartment was as much ours as just mine, but Kyle did not move in with me because of our different sleep regimes. I can get by with three hours a night; Kyle needs at least seven.
Calling out to me from the living room he asked:
"Say Troy, is Esmeralda up here with you? She is due at the vet this afternoon."
"Not to worry Kyle, she's in here with us."
"Us? You, her, and who else?"
Us meant me, the cat, and Constable Franco, Paolo Franco, the cute gay cop I had met one fateful night near the ravine along Rocky Creek where the cops had caught me skinny dipping. Kyle walked into the bedroom and raised his eyebrows theatrically, waiting for me to explain why Paolo and I were lounging in bed stark naked with the bedclothes strewn about, and with Esmeralda stretched out on the bed at our feet.
"Uh Kyle, I should explain that I asked Paolo to come over this afternoon to talk about the crime problem in our building, and... well uh, one thing led to another...and...uh..."
"I see..."
Kyle's feigned jealousy was so transparent, with arms crossed and furrowed brow, that I burst out laughing. Kyle and Paolo soon joined in. With the ice broken we got down to business.
"Uh, Kyle..." Paolo asked, "do you always run around the building in just bikini briefs?"
I answered for him:
"No, of course he doesn't. Briefs are only for formal occasions. Usually Kyle runs around in the rude nude, as anyone that sexy and good-looking really ought to," I said with a wink to my boyfriend.
Actually with so many residents gay or at least gay friendly partial or total nudity was hardly unusual in the common areas of the building when folks popped down to check the mail or to the laundry room, partly to cope with the oppressive summer heat brought on by climate change and partly just because they could. Our spooky old mansion was a veritable den of iniquity, and I would not have had it any other way.
As to our crime problem, it seems that some very clever person or persons was getting into selected apartments, those with the very best tech so the stuff was really worth stealing. Of course, everyone had household tech such as a desktop, notebook, or lap top plus mobile devices like phones, tablets, and book readers, but some residents worked at home and had quite elaborate set ups. We are talking high end computers so the Apple Mini not the consumer targeted all-in-one iMac or expensive tablets like iPad Pro or Galaxy Tab S9 which can run you up to $1200. The Samsung Trifold combo of phone and tablet costs $1800. Also targeted were computer setups with three or more monitors or high end workstations, i.e. machines needed for editing video or audio, graphics and animation, or serious number crunching.
Our best guess was that the thief or thieves lived in the building. He always struck in the daytime, when the owners were out, whether at work, in class, in training, traveling, or even laid up in the hospital. He must know quite a bit about the other residents, their tech assets, their daily schedules, vacation or travel plans, and so forth.
He probably relied on scans of social media including our building's Facebook group and the website maintained by our management company. I suspect he likely listened to gossip and to conversations in our back yard, at social events, and at the coffee house on our block. Maybe he was that helpful neighbor who took in the paper or your mail when you were away for a week, or a friendly sort given to seemingly idle chit chat with one and all. However he did it, his intel was reliable. So far he had never broken in while someone was at home during a burglary. So far no confrontations, and no one hurt physically, though anything might happen if he were cornered.
The thief was not deterred nor even slowed down much by normal security measures like the deadbolt locks activated by a keypad or a fob nor by video surveillance inside the apartments.
"I take it then that there is no surveillance video in the hallways or at the outside entrances?" the young constable asked, all business now. Despite being entirely unclothed, Franco was showing that he was more than just a pretty face and a sexy whipcord lean body.
"No. That is impermissible for privacy reasons." Kyle answered. "No offense Paolo, but your colleagues in blue haven't been very helpful."
Franco nodded.
"No surprise there, Kyle. First of all, detectives have better things to do than to track down stolen property, so there are no real investigations. Oh, you can file police reports which will circulate to pawn shops and other outlets, but realistically the cops have too much else on their plates, especially violent crime: shootings, armed robbery, rape, or even domestic disturbances."
"And we uniformed cops cannot deter thefts with patrols whether on foot or in cruisers. Crime prevention is really up to the citizenry and to private security. The police mostly react to crimes which have already been committed. It's mostly street crime which we might be deterred by a police presence in squad cars, on bikes, or with foot patrols or cops moonlighting as private security. That is the grim truth of it, as unpalatable as that may sound."
"Thanks for your candor, Paolo. But if not the cops, who can we turn to? Troy and I, we're just private citizens and amateur crime stoppers at best."
"True, but Troy was just telling me how the building is 'just honeycombed with secret passages'. We might be able to do something with them. Your leases forbid cameras in the hallways and at outside entrances, but cameras in the servant runs would not violate the house rules. They would have to be activated by motion sensors so we wouldn't have to review endless footage of empty hallways."
"That sounds promising, Paolo" I responded. "Any other ideas?"
"No suspicious fingerprints means he wears gloves, which is something we can look for in the surveillance video. Can we tweak the search algorithm to look for gloved hands?"
Kyle nodded.
"An excellent idea. With my IT skills I could tweak the algorithm myself. Those are good first steps. It's pretty clear he must use sophisticated electronics to bypass the keypad and fob interlocks and to disable video cameras inside the apartments."
"That's way above my pay grade, guys. I'm just patrol, a beat cop. You're our tech whiz, Kyle."
"Sure, I am pretty good with tech but not the right kind for this. My expertise lies in scientific computing specifically the field of physical chemistry – not to be confused with chemical physics. I'm working on a PhD in that field. Give me a couple more years and you will all have to address me as, ahem Doctor Kavanagh – that's spelled with a K."
"So you have your Masters already?"
"Of course. So whenever I snap my fingers Constable Franco, call me Master, drop to your knees, and worship at my feet."
"As if! Remember as a Law Enforcement Officer I am the one who puts the cuffs on other guys."
"Anyway, all kidding aside," Paolo continued,
"At some point we will need to officially involve the police to gather evidence that will hold up in court and to make the arrest. Detectives appreciate helpful tips from the public but don't have much use for citizen sleuths, self-appointed amateur investigators channeling Sherlock Holmes or Jessica Fletcher. They can really mess up a case or jump to faulty conclusions even going so far as to publicly accuse an innocent party."
"So let's bring Sergeant Delaney in on this. He may be only a street cop now, but he used to be a detective in a major crimes bureau in Colorado before going back to the job he loved. He will tell you himself that one thing patrol officers must never do is play detective. Things can get awkward at the precinct house when that happens. So when the time comes, I will be perfectly happy to let the detectives make the arrest and take the credit for it. As for me, I will go down in their books as a helpful team player and a possible pick for detective some day after I get enough experience under my belt. Understand?"
"Perfectly."
The next day Sergeant Delaney showed up at the mansion in civilian clothes a couple of hours before he and Paolo were to go on shift. For our meeting I was wearing a polo shirt and long pants plus moccasins. He came in, smiled sardonically, and remarked to me:
"So this is what you look like in clothes!"
"Yep. I dress up pretty good, wouldn't you say sergeant?"
Sergeant Delaney confirmed everything Paolo had said about their own roles and those of the detectives and through them the public prosecutor.
"Franco is right. Your role should be to give the detectives a solid lead but not to secure admissible evidence needed for a conviction. That is the job of the detectives and the crime scene investigators and forensics. Patrol's role is to provide back up when the detectives make the actual arrests."
"Besides, only Franco is armed or should be on this adventure so no guns for you two even if you had a license to carry concealed, which you don't – I checked. Besides it is highly unusual for a burglar to go armed. If he were caught with a weapon, the charges and penalties are much more severe. Nor can you guys be in on the arrest, not even as witnesses. No offense to either of you, Kyle and Troy, but, legal issues aside, if it comes down to a fight, pretty boys that you are, I doubt your ability to handle yourselves."
Kyle snorted.
"Don't worry about me. I was a middleweight boxing champion in college."
I told Delany: "And I know Thai kick boxing and two other martial arts, plus I fight dirty. And this is not my first rodeo, not by a long shot."
My body language and the certainty in my voice made Delaney look at me intently, weighing and appraising. I remembered what he had told Franco, how cops notice things and learn to read people. I wondered momentarily if I had revealed too much, pulling back a corner of the curtain which normally concealed the depth of experience which must lie behind such confidence in my abilities. It turned out that I had not miscalculated nor misjudged the man.
"So Troy, let me ask you. You must have heard about that robbery a while back where the victim died on the street but his three assailants were killed immediately afterward in a nearby alley. We never did figure out who took them out. We think it might be a second victim who somehow managed to turned the tables on the robbers despite odds of three against one but has his own reasons for not coming forward. Or maybe it was a good Samaritan who is not interested in taking credit for his good deed or even a vigilante, maybe someone who has read too many comic books and wants to keep his identity a secret."
I shrugged.
"I did hear about the killings. In fact on my way to work the next day, I walked past the yellow tape around the crime scene, but all that I know about what happened is what I read in the papers."
"Uh huh. The crime scene would be about halfway between that gay bar you work at and this apartment. Wouldn't you say?"
"Sounds about right..." I was wary now, and it was Delaney's move. The seasoned cop nodded, having made up his mind about me, then opined blandly.
"I don't think the detectives have gotten anywhere with the case or ever will. My gut tells me this one is headed for the cold case files. Still you gotta wonder..."
My friends sat silent, stunned by the unstated implications but not daring to voice their suspicions. Delaney got me off the hook before either of them blurted out something we might regret later.
"In my book whoever killed the muggers probably deserves a medal but would likely get arrested if he came forward now, so many weeks after the event. And if he is smart, he will never tell anyone what he did, not even family, lovers, or close friends, lest it come back to haunt him later. Families have feuds, lovers get dumped, and best friends fall out or just lose touch. Or maybe someone gets in trouble with the law and gives his friend up, turning state's evidence in exchange for a lighter sentence or for dropping the charges entirely."
"We owe our family, friends, and lovers the truth and nothing but the truth but not necessarily the whole truth. As Benjamin Franklin once put it:
"Three can keep a secret..."
"But only if two of them are dead." Paolo cut in, finishing Delaney's sentence for him, which brought an approving nod from the good sergeant, who concluded by saying:
"No. Better let sleeping dogs lie."
An unmistakeable lesson for Delaney's three interlocutors: me, Kyle, and Paolo. So that was where we all left it forever afterward, something never to be talked about.
The rest of the investigation went off much as we hoped. We set up motion activated cameras peering into the hallways from the servant runs. Every evening we ran the search software till we caught a guy skulking around wearing gloves holding high tech gizmos in his hands. We phoned Franco and Sergeant Delaney who passed on our tip to the detectives.
They traced the suspect's movements via pings on cellphone towers, internet traffic, credit card purchases, ATM transactions, etc. Especially enlightening were phone calls to a known fence. The detectives knew that even professional burglars don't sell stolen merchandise directly to end users. They use fences to dispose of their ill gotten gains, if only because the skill sets of burglars and fences were so very different. Also burglars worked alone or in pairs. Fences had lots of contacts regular customers and sold their goods openly, just never coming clean about their provenance.
The burglar turned out to be a grad student who had lost his bursary and needed a way to pay for tuition and living expenses. Very good in tech, he hatched his scheme in desperation, so he was not a career criminal, just someone who made bad life choices. Ironically he was not on my personal list of suspects, and there I had thought that I, with all my experience reading people, might be the one to suss him out.
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