The Void
Civilian life had no rhythm.
For the first time since high school, Kyle woke without a mission. No reveille, no orders, no boots thudding across concrete. Just the faint hum of a refrigerator motor and the smell of bleach mixed with old cigarettes. The blinds in his rented room trembled each time a bus went past, casting slow-moving stripes across the floor.
He thought he’d miss the noise less than he did.
The quiet stretched too wide, like the pause between heartbeats. Sometimes he caught himself standing at attention in front of the bathroom mirror, spine straight, jaw tight, and then feeling ridiculous for it.
He picked up work wherever he could: unloading freight at the warehouse, hauling debris for demolition crews, pushing a mop across tile floors in office buildings that always smelled faintly of lemon polish and loneliness.
Each job followed the same pattern. The boss liked him at first. “Good worker,” they’d say. “Doesn’t complain. Shows up early.” The pay never matched the effort, but Kyle didn’t argue. He’d been trained out of that.
When layoffs came, they came without warning , a clipboard, a shrug, maybe a handshake. Then came the silence again.
He’d spend the following nights walking the edge of town, where the streetlights thinned out and the desert began. Trucks thundered down the highway like veins of light, disappearing into the dark. The sound soothed him, steady, predictable, distant. He told himself this drift was only temporary, just a phase before he figured out where to go next.
But “next” never seemed to come.
The producer found him outside a gas station in Albuquerque.
Kyle was leaning against his truck, paper cup of coffee cooling in his hand, when a man in sunglasses stepped out of a silver sedan. Mid-forties, crisp polo shirt, too calm for the heat.
“Have you ever done modeling?” the man asked, as if it were the most natural question in the world.
Kyle snorted. “Are you kidding?”
“Not the New York kind,” the man said smoothly. “Not the kind with women with their legs splayed open with a man ready to penetrate. We do fitness modeling, occasional mild nudity You’ve got the build for it. I’m scouting for a studio that pays well. One weekend, maybe two. Easy money.”
Kyle studied him over the rim of his cup. The guy’s tone was casual, but his eyes lingered too long.
“I don’t think so,” Kyle said.
“Think about it,” the man replied. “You don’t have to decide right now, and nobody back home will ever know.” He slid a business card across the hood of Kyle’s truck. No name, just a number. “It’s easy money.”
For a while, Kyle carried the card in his wallet without admitting to himself why.
Rent came due. The warehouse hadn’t called him back. He ate instant noodles three nights in a row and counted coins at the gas station counter. Pride, he learned, had a shelf life.
When he finally dialed the number, his voice barely sounded like his own.
The studio was on the outskirts of the city, tucked between a shuttered strip mall and a billboard for car insurance. Inside, everything gleamed, tile floors, chrome fixtures, lights too bright to look at directly.
No one used real names. The man who’d recruited him was there, all business now. “You’ll be fine,” he said, handing Kyle a bottle of water. “Just follow directions.”
The lights were hot. The air smelled of cologne, sweat, dust. The worst part was having the man with the high-pitched voice ooh and ahh as he applied Kyle’s makeup.
“Just a little here. You certainly don’t need much.” The wink made him feel uncomfortable.
Most of the photos were shirtless, tight athletic shorts, underwear, a few with his pubic hair just showing over the band of his underwear. The nude photos only showed his ass and his face was partially in shadow. A frontal shot would have been extra money, but he wasn’t ready for that.
When it was over, Kyle dressed in silence, counted the money twice, and left without saying goodbye.
Back at the motel, he sat on the edge of the bed staring at his hands, the calluses, the faint scars along his knuckles. They looked like they belonged to someone else.
He told himself it was a one-time thing, a mistake he could bury.
But the calls seemed to know when he was short of cash.
Each time, the man offered more, more money, less pretense. And each time, Kyle said yes faster. Another nude man stood near him at one point. The jobs paid off his truck. Bought tools he hardly used. Kept him fed.
Each time, something inside him went a little quieter. At one point, they asked him to let the other man perform oral sex on him; photos and video. Cash for a two hour session. He took the money.
During the next session he wanted him to fuck an older guy. He lost his virginity for two thousand dollars. For the money shot, Marshall’s face came into view. The men were impressed by his size, impressed with the distance he shot his load, impressed by the amount of cum.
Kyle decided he would not participate in another shoot, but when the call came, he found himself agreeing. After the third time, they asked him to bottom, perhaps do an orgy. He went home and considered things. He knew that he did not want to do another scene, but he knew that if they asked, he would not be able to say no.
He decided that it was time to move on.
He decided that it was time to head home.
When Kyle finally arrived home a few years later, the town had changed. His parents were gone, his mother’s garden overgrown, the house sold to strangers. Even the high school bleachers looked smaller. The gas station where he’d spent half his teenage summers had turned into a convenience mart with digital pumps and bulletproof glass.
No one asked where he’d been. No one really wanted to know. No one even seemed to remember him.
He found work at Discount Tire. Long hours, small talk, the smell of rubber and engine grease thick in the air. His boss, a wiry man named Don, liked him. “You’re steady,” Don said one afternoon. “Most guys your age don’t last a week. The kids’ll hang around ‘cause they want the dough. I see you moving up.”
Kyle nodded, wiped his hands on a rag, and went back to work. Keeping his head down was easy. It was what he’d always done.
It might’ve stayed that way if not for the man in the suit.
Late thirties, polished shoes, polite smile that lingered too long. He came in just before closing, asking about a tire rotation for a Lexus. When Kyle bent to check the tread, he felt the man’s gaze, the same quiet calculation he’d seen in the producer’s eyes years ago.
When the shop emptied out, the man lingered by the counter. “You’re badge says you’re Kyle W. But your stage name is Kyle Large, right?” he asked softly. “I’ve seen… some of your old work.”
The words froze the air.
The man smiled, hands in his pockets. “You’re even better-looking in person.”
Kyle swallowed hard. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long ago,” the man said. “You’re one the hottest man on the Internet. I replay your video all the time. I’d like to see more of you. You know. Without the overalls. I’ll pay. Cash. No strings. Extra if you do more than let me touch you.”
His tone wasn’t cruel, just practical, like a business deal.
Kyle stared at the floor, at the black smudges of oil near his boots. With a little extra cash, maybe he could move out of that bug infested apartment. He told himself it didn’t matter any way. “What the hell,” he said. “Sure,” he told the man.
The motel was one of those half-forgotten places with flickering neon and doors that opened straight to the parking lot. The sign out front buzzed faintly: VACANCY. WEEKLY RATES.
He parked beneath a broken light and sat for a minute before going in. Two rooms down, a couple was arguing, the sharp crack of a woman’s voice, a man’s muffled apology.
He barely noticed them.
Inside, everything smelled of mildew and stale coffee. The man was waiting, calm and precise. He asked Kyle to remove his clothes. Once naked, the man handled his member, marveling at its size. Kyle said nothing. He was aware that the website that hosted his videos said he was nine inches, but he knew he was not quite eight. Media hype. But the man seemed pleased. He kissed the head of Kyle’s penis. The softness of the caress elicited a response. The man asked Kyle to pound his ass. So Kyle put on a condom and pounded it. He came on the man’s face as requested. When it was over, Kyle picked up the envelope of cash. The man thanked him and waited impatiently for Kyle to leave.
Kyle washed his hands quickly as he stared at the man looking back at him in the mirror, mustache, tired eyes, a face lined with years he couldn’t account for.
He went to the door, pushed the envelope farther into his pocket, and stepped into the night.
The air was cool and sharp with rain and engine oil. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed, then faded.
He walked to his truck, thinking only of sleep, of how early he had to be up for work the next morning. He felt empty. Dirty. He’d take a long shower, hopefully hot, as soon as he got back to his one-room place.
He didn’t hear the scream from two doors down.
He didn’t know that a frightened woman would later tell the police she’d seen a man with a mustache walking toward a tan pickup.
Kyle didn’t know that by morning, his name would be printed in black ink, and that the silence he’d been living in all those years was about to break wide open.
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