I was hungry when I met him, in many ways. 

Physically, as it had been two days since I had eaten anything. Professionally, as my desire to be a successful and widely influential artist was overwhelming and all-consuming. And personally, as I longed for a partner to ease the loneliness that left me feeling alienated from everyone around me.

I was making money selling my paintings, enough to afford a small, one-bedroom apartment, which my parents graciously helped me pay for. I had gained enough public recognition that an upscale commercial gallery had offered me the chance to exhibit my work with them. By sacrificing food, I was better able to afford the cost of art supplies, but I was still unable to pay models to pose for the figurative artworks I was producing. So, I began attending life-drawing sessions at a nearby artist-run centre. The majority of the models were seniors looking to celebrate the beauty of their gracefully aging bodies. While they were far from the idyllic nudes I sought to represent in my work, they did allow me to visually explore, and gain a greater understanding of, the human body.

It was an unusually cold Thursday evening in early May. Worried that I would arrive late to the weekly drawing session, I rushed to acquire a space as close to the fleeting physical exhibit as possible. After a multitude of “Excuse Me’s” and “Pardon Me’s,” I managed to shuffle my way into a seat at the very front of the string of sawhorses and easels that encircled our newest nude subject. I settled into my drawing position, with my overly large sketchpad resting directly on my rapidly numbing legs. I pulled out my fragile piece of stick charcoal and steeled myself to draw yet another old figure, though I craved the chance to depict a younger subject. I was dumbstruck and caught short of breath as my gaze fell upon him.

He looked to be about my age, with smooth skin, a chiseled jaw, and a body comparable to that of an ancient Greek sculpture. He had a well-defined chest with three dark lines of muscle that extended down both sides of his thin, taut torso. His hip bones jutted out, allowing his stomach muscles to form a V-shape that pointed directly to his shaved genitals. His ash blonde hair was slicked away from his forehead and spiked up in a seemingly haphazard way that betrayed the amount of time and effort taken to style it. His beauty seemed almost too perfect, and somehow artificial, like a heavily Photoshopped magazine model. I would have thought him a lifeless artistic construction were it not for his eyes, which dazzled a brilliant cerulean blue in the spotlight of the studio space.

He stood boldly before us, unabashed by his nudity, in a pose reminiscent of Michelangelo’s David. He stared off into space, seemingly unaware of the group of artists crowded around him, eager to depict his statuesque body. I sat motionless before my pad of newsprint, soaking in his beauty, and trying desperately to control my physical arousal.

After a minute, a timer beeped and his body instantly, effortlessly, and gracefully folded into a yoga-like pose that I thought only contortionists could assume. Inspired and transfixed, I began to sketch vigorously, excited to capture every nuance of the Adonis that presented himself to me. A million ideas flowed through my mind; the visual potential of this man’s body unfolded before me as I rapidly drew the multitude of simple and complex poses he assumed during the hour-long drawing session.

We took a break, which I was thankful for as my stomach was growling and I needed a smoke to quash my hunger pains. I had barely taken two puffs when he came outside and stood just four feet away. I tried not to look at him as he struggled to light his cigarette. Abandoning the futile effort, he turned to me and asked, “Hey, can I borrow your lighter?”

A simple question, and one that I had been asked many times. But this time felt different, as though it were the first time I had ever been asked this question, and I was anxious to respond. Fumbling through my pocket, I managed to find my lighter and handed it to him, my whole body shaking with nervousness. “For sure,” I muttered, barely able to look him in the eye.

“Thanks,” he said as he quickly lit his cigarette and handed back the lighter.

“NP!” I replied, trying to sound hip, modern, and nonchalant.

He smirked and let out a subtle laugh. “So, have you lived here long?” he enquired as he struggled to establish eye contact.

I nervously avoided his attempts. “I went to art school here. And when I was done, I decided to stay to try to get my career started.” I was embarrassed by this statement, as I felt I should already be more established in my profession then I currently was. “And you, how long have you lived here?” I asked as I stared at my feet, which I shuffled from side to side in an anxious attempt to burn away calories I hadn’t even consumed.

“I’ve been here for a couple days,” he replied. “I’m a film student at a school on the East coast. I got accepted for a summer internship working on a low-budget film out here.” His face turned rose-red, and his head dropped downward to stare at his own anxiously shuffling feet. “I’m not supposed to talk about it until it’s released,” he whispered. “Confidentiality agreements, and all.”

I nodded my head in false understanding, which caused his complexion to brighten and his body to inflate with confidence. “I don’t get paid a lot,” he said. “So, in order to earn some extra money, I decided to start posing as a nude model at local artist-run centres.”

My body tingled at this comment. Did he notice I was shaking? Did he see me adjust my pant leg to hide my semi-erect crotch? Had he recognized my attempted aloofness as the sham that it was?

“Sounds cool,” I said nonchalantly. “And lucky for me!” I added with a laugh.

He slyly smiled as he extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Elio, by the way."

“Mike!” I replied as I hesitantly grabbed his hand and quickly shook it before he could realize how sweaty it was.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“So…you’re an artist?” he asked as he twisted his head to look me directly in the eye. I turned to meet his gaze, but his eyes darted towards the end of his lit cigarette. 

“Yes!” I replied as I confidently puffed out my chest.

An awkward moment of silence passed between us. “So, are you one of those artsy, super conceptual, short-film-making kind of film students, or are you just someone who's there to make other’s magic happen?” As soon as I had finished saying it, I realized how elitist this question sounded. I struggled to correct myself by stating, “I didn’t mean to sound rude! I just wanted to know if you were an artist…I mean, I wanted to know if you were interested in film as an art form, or if you were interested in art at all, or if you considered yourself an artist, or…” I let this statement trail off into yet another awkward silence.

He forced an approving laugh to dissipate the uncomfortableness of the situation. “No, I don’t really think of myself as an artist." He shot me an accusatory glance. "But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate art!”

“I never meant to say you did,” I muttered sheepishly, my face burning with embarrassment.

We puffed away at our cigarettes, both of us alternating our gaze between our shoes and the night sky, neither one of us prepared to make eye contact with the other.

He lightly tapped his fingers against my arm. “Hey! Why don’t we grab a drink after this, and you can tell me about this city?”

I was momentarily speechless. A full orchestra exploded in my brain, replete with crescendos and decrescendos that reflected the cascade of emotions flooding through my mind. My body shook and my eyes fought back tears. Was this really happening? Gathering my composure, I tried to act casual as I replied, “Sure. There’s a bar down the street from here. I haven’t been but it looks like an okay place to drink.”

He looked at me with a sideways grin and said, “Great! Sounds like a plan!”

I did everything I could to contain my excitement, allowing only a slight smile to slowly spread across my face. 

The proceeding hour couldn’t have passed by any slower as I rapidly sketched the complex poses Elio assumed. It was almost as if he were showing off for me. I did my best to think of him in purely artistic terms, as though he were a still-life, and not an object of physical desire. As he was altering his various poses, he would steal a quick, curious glance in my direction. It sent shivers through me every time.

He wants me, I thought. This gorgeous example of masculine beauty wants me. He could have anyone he wanted with his chiseled features and amazing body. But I’m pretty sure he wants me!

Finally, the end of the drawing session arrived. I rushed to greet him, shoving all my drawing supplies into my portfolio bag with little regard for their preservation. Elio suggested we go to a restaurant instead of a bar, a proposition that utterly repulsed me.

I hate restaurants. The thought of other people preparing my food disgusts me. What if their hands are covered in germs? What if they add more calories to the meals then they’re supposed to? What if they’re fat and they’re trying to make everyone else in the world fat just like them? Was I being paranoid? Was that possible? And what if it was? What then? I don’t think I could eat anything ever again because there was this plot, this potential plot against me, my weight, and my appearance. And I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of winning.

But Elio looked so eager when he suggested it that I couldn’t say no.

I agreed to join him at a restaurant, though I made it explicitly clear that it was only for drinks. I claimed I had eaten a heavy supper and only felt like drinking. He looked me up and down with an expression of disbelief, then muttered, “Sounds good,” with a strained tone to his voice, practically resisting the urge to roll his eyes at my obviously fabricated statement.

Well, we got to drinking, which got us talking, which got us drinking some more. I was starting to get hungry, but I didn’t dare admit it as doing so would reveal my physical weaknesses. So, I ignored the hunger, drowning it with a mixture of booze, pop, and cigarettes. As I teetered on passing out, Elio suggested we order some appetizers. I agreed, striving to restrain my joy at this suggestion. “But no meat,” I stressed. “I don’t eat meat. I haven’t eaten it since I was sixteen and I’m not about to start now!”

“Okay, okay, no meat!” he exclaimed with an awkward chuckle and a facetious raise of his hands. “We’ll order a veggie tray!”

The tray came, and I began nibbling at it slowly at first, then ravenously as my body began to demand more and more of the nourishment I had been denying it for days. I suddenly realized how I must have looked: like a pig, stuffing his face, getting fatter and fatter by the second. I was sickened by my actions. I didn’t want Elio to look at me.

I excused myself and ran to the bathroom, where I locked myself in a stall and lifted the toilet lid. I shoved my hand deep into my mouth and began swirling my fingers around, using their tips to caress every inner space of my throat. I was frightened by its warmth and sliminess and shaken by the painful ripples that passed through my body. The vomit slid silently from my stomach, spilling over my hand and down my arm, burning my skin with my own body’s digestive juices. I thought about how much I didn't want to do this, and how much I felt I needed to do this. Purging may be painful, but the thought of facing the world as a bloated, disgusting mess was terrifying. So, I kept my hand shoved down my throat till blood sputtered over my fingers. "This should be good enough," I said to myself. "Please, let this be good enough!"

I flushed the toilet then quickly rushed to the sink to clean myself up, scrubbing my hands, arms, and face to ensure that no residual smell of vomit remained when I returned to Elio.

“You were gone a long time,” Elio quipped as he stared at my stomach then raised his eyes to my mouth. “Are you okay?” His voice and face changed to an expression of genuine concern. “I mean, seriously? Are you okay?”

“I’m great…now!” I replied as I coyly smiled at him, visualizing every taut, well-defined muscle that I knew to be present beneath the tight folds of his constrictive clothing.

“You sure?” He arched his eyebrows in doubt.

“I’m sure!” I declared as I fought back my increasing desire for him, his physical beauty, and his sense of concern. I was struck by his compassion and empathy for me. Would he know? I wondered. Would he know how much I wanted him? How much I would sacrifice for him? The atrocities I would commit just to be with him?  Could he read it on my face? Was it obvious? Was I successfully playing it cool? Was he fooled? Or was I just fooling myself about everything?

“Well, I have something that’ll really make this night special!” He quickly glanced around the room, then casually pulled two pastel purple pills from his pocket and cupped them into the palm of my hand. “You do these?” he asked as he looked me in the eye with a forced aloofness.

“Always!” I replied as I washed both pills down with one long swig of my whisky and coke.

He seemed momentarily entranced, then quickly turned away and began walking out of the restaurant at an unusually rapid pace. Surprised by his abrupt exit, I paused before running after him, a confused expression lingering on my face. I caught up with him as he stood on the edge of the sidewalk, staring into the streetlight-lit expanse of the numerically organized city. 

“I don’t know where to go! I’m not used to addresses that are made up entirely of numbers!” he said as he turned to look at me. His body began to shake with fear as he realized how lost he was in this strange and unfamiliar place. I understood; I felt the same way when I first moved here.

“I don’t live far,” I said as I gestured in the general direction of my apartment. “Why don’t you come over? We can hang out. You can stay the night.” My eyes darted to the ground then back to his. “If you want to, that is.”

He placed his hand on my back and began to massage the space between my shoulder blades. My body convulsed, my heart began to race, and my armpits poured a rancid-smelling sweat.

“I’d like that!” he replied sincerely.

I smiled as we finally looked deep into each other’s eyes and, just for a moment, we betrayed our mutual carnal attraction.