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Creating Sebastian


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Here is the face that launched a thousand ships. Here is a body that puts all of art’s history to shame. Here is the greatest waste of potential I’ve ever seen, as that exquisite face and similarly comely form belong to a male unconscious of his charms, one Sebastian Roth. He and I share an apartment in New York City, as we both opted out of dorming at the art college we attend.

I first noticed him in a graphic design course, which is to say I didn’t initially notice him. He was slouching, as he often does, over a desk wearing an ill fitting sweater and hiding behind a long mane of unkempt black hair. It was only when he looked up that my heart skipped a beat and I gasped softly at the face that was revealed. This stunning creature was possessed of high cheekbones, flawless pale skin, big blue-green eyes with long lashes, and full sensuous lips, the only thing marring his beauty was a pitifully patchy attempt at a goatee. After a moment, he looked down again, and the effect was lost, leaving only a disturbingly scruffy art student in the angel’s place.

I started talking to him after that; I think he was stunned I was talking to him. On that note, I’m Raphael. I’m a painter. I’m six foot four. I’ve been told I look like a cross between young Iggy Pop and a Barbie Doll, which I find to be an amusingly apt description considering waist length bleached blonde hair, and a face I know to be both androgynous and attractive. I wear makeup. I am flamboyantly whatever the hell I am. Beyond art, literature, music and that sort of bullshit, my favorite things in life are automechanics (particularly vintage cars) and fashion (particularly tight pants). In other words, I don’t look like the sort of guy that’d be caught dead near an unwashed hippie.

Shockingly, we hit it off. We liked the same artists, and books, and movies, and things. Eventually we took an apartment together, we’ve lived together for three months now.

I’ve never gotten over the face hidden under that goatee, or the slender body under those baggy clothes. It’s inconceivable, but I think I have a bit of a crush on him. Sometimes, I’ll walk into his room and he’ll still be sleeping. He sleeps on his side, head on folded hands, like an illustration from sleeping beauty. He looks almost painfully sweet like that, his slim leggy frame ever so inviting in bed.

This evening, the artist in me can’t take all that wasted beauty anymore, so I sit down on the edge of his bed, he’s napping after pulling an all nighter, and touch his cheek. “Bastian...” I say, and he nuzzles my hand, eyelids fluttering, I bite my lower lip, trying to resist the urge to kiss him.

He moans softly before he’s fully awake. “Raph?” he says.

“In the flesh,” I say, with a nervous laugh. “Bastian...” I pause unsure. “Bastian, I was wondering if maybe you’d let me try something with you... you’ll really have to trust me.”

“You know I trust you, Raph.”

“...Seb, can I make you over?”

He looks at me for a moment, as if he doesn’t understand quite what I’m asking, as if my words have blurred in the air on the way to him, and are now to indistinct to understand.

“...I” he says.

“Please,” I say. His sleepy green eyes meet my dark brown and waver for a moment. Finally, he nods, biting his lower lip.

“Yes,” he says, brows knitting. “but I doubt even you will be able to do much.”

“I think you may be surprised by how much I can do.”

He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Oh?” he says. I smile.

“If I told you it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.”

I cover the bathroom mirror, and tell Sebastian to shut his eyes. The knowledge that I’m the one doing this makes my hands shake a bit as I run a bath. The steam from the hot water rises like smoke from a sacred bonfire in some long past age. I light beeswax candles. Their flickering illumination provides a certain atmosphere, recalling hints of something ancient and occult, awakens something that slumbered on the edge of my consciousness.

Fire and water, the elements of cleansing and rebirth, I think, recalling various religious studies and folk lore courses I’d taken.

I add scented salts and bath oil to the water, orange blossom and gardenia. The victorian language of flowers comes to mind, in which orange blossom signifies purity, and gardenia beauty. I bought a bouquet of burgundy roses last week on a whim, they sit on the sill of the small bathroom window, currently, their meaning is unconscious beauty, again uncannily appropriate. It seems I am suddenly surrounded by accidental symbols.

Our apartment is in an old building. Our tub is claw footed, with old fixtures. The entire apartment has always had, at least in my impression a vague aura of magic about it. Not that I believe in such things, but being here brings to mind fairy lights, and sacred groves. The rite taking place in my bathroom makes some strange sense to me. This unmasking, this transformation, ordinary as the circumstances may be is in certain ways on a thematic level mythic.

He’s wearing red plaid boxers and nothing else. He doesn’t seem to object when I slide them off his slim hips. His pale skin is warm and soft, somehow I expected him to be chilly to the touch, but he’s not, he’s warm and alive, and I can feel his pulse when I take his wrist to help him into the bath.

I lean back, watching him soak, and lighting a clove cigarette, taking a few long drags before I take a pair of nail scissors to that damned facial hair while Seb leans over the edge of the tub.

I hack it away ruthlessly, caring only to avoid hurting him, watching fascinated as the clumps of whispy beard falls to the floor. I trim the hated shrubbery until there’s almost nothing left to mar the smoothness of his exquisite face. I wash his hair for him, using my expensive but worth it shampoo, and a deep conditioner. They smell heavenly, like new beginnings. He makes contented noises as I massage his scalp.

After I rinse out the conditioner, I dry his mane gently with a towel, and comb it out over the edge of the tub. His hair feels heavenly when it’s cared for properly, silky soft and glossy, of course there are a few split ends, but not many. I trim a half inch off the bottom and it’s perfect.

I shave what little body hair he has, watching as bright steel takes off fine dark hair I scrub, exfoliate, and moisturize every inch of his slender body. . I shave his face with him blindfolded and trusting me with that sharp blade. I cleanse, tone, and moisturize his flawless complexion. I blow dry his hair so it’s sleek and pin straight. I paint his fingernails blood red, he’s got gorgeous hands. He looks baffled trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing with his eyes shut. I’m trying not to see the big picture, trying to make sure I see only what I’m doing, because I want the full effect when I finally step back.

I can’t explain what it was that made today the day, but it seems as if there’s something humming in the air around us, some strange energy that makes my skin crawl and my heart race. I feel too alive, the way you feel at the top of a roller-coaster, the way you feel when you’re just about to tell someone you’re in love with them, and you’re not sure if they feel the same.

It’s dizzying, but my hands are steady as pluck his brows giving them a nice arch and I apply makeup to that perfect face, foundation that matches the perfect porcelain of his skin, concealer to hide the dark circles from too many late nights, pale gold eyeshadow with dark grey in the crease, thick black liner round the rim, gloss on that full lipped mouth.

When I’m finished I stand back back and stare for a moment at the altered Sebastian. He is more beautiful than I could have imagined. He is pale and slim. His shoulders are somewhat broad compared to his sim frame and tiny waist, but all of him is boney. His stomach is flat with the slight hint of muscle that all slender young men have. My eyes slide down to sharp hipbones, that draw my eyes to the space between his legs. He’s gratifyingly got a semi by now, but I try not to stare, moving my eyes downward long shapely legs, the sort of legs models would envy. I bite my lip, holding myself back from doing what I want to do just yet. What I want to do is to wrap my fingers around his cock, and fondle and stroke till me moans in that sweet voice of his, and can’t help but come. I need to show him himself first, show him exactly how beautiful he can be. Because he is beautiful.

Skin tight black jeans, and a silver satin halter top, boots with a bit of a heel, and I swear I can’t stand it any more. Does he know how badly I want him? I don’t know, but when he opens his eyes there’ll be no mistaking the need presenting itself in the form of an obvious bulge in my pants.

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