Tales from the Birchfield farm

Preface: From brat to star, young Hiram becomes an asset to The Birchfield Farm – proof that a well-guided teen can display ability beyond earlier expectations. In fact, Hiram’s eye-popping photography becomes catalytic to all the seething events which follow his exhibition. Need to catch up on what preceded? Look here for the other parts. At the end, please register your level of approval – which will mean so much to yours truly.

Hiram hits manhattan, & ensuing events

Excitement crackled in the night air. Being set, a precedent. For the first time ever, the entire staff of The Birchfield Farm was dressed to the nines (not costumed for sex) and milling around in the foyer of a large private art gallery, MW ART, in Manhattan. Mixing freely with them, wealthy clients former and present along with a few dozen of those men’s carefully-vetted friends from across the U.S. and several countries.

Prominent as underwriter of the exhibition, investor Duane Wilderforce (of Paris and London) welcomed everyone individually at the door, CEO Alan Ecks (of Chicago) at his side for introductions when needed. Champagne and hors-d’oeuvres appeared in plentiful supply.

MW ART’s huge plate-glass windows were blacked out by heavy curtains, the space inside brilliantly lit. Vigilant Valets, a company with drivers trained to treat luxury cars with care, parked a variety of Bentleys and Rolls-Royces, two Maybachs, an assortment of Porsches, BMWs, and Audis, a McLaren, a Bugatti Veyron, and a Pagani – although, traffic being what it was even on a Sunday evening – many guests arrived by taxi.

Police (watchful outside) and armed guards (surveilling inside) were on spy-tight duty.

The list was checked against proffered invitations. The use of cell phones was permissible in restrooms only.

Among the few women present, one stood out. Gregarious, carefully made-up, somewhat rotund Maria Cortelini (despite having been on a diet), felt herself in heaven and ever so lovely. Her self-sewn, off-the-shoulder, maroon satin gown had many yards of fabric to its sweep. She was as proud of it as of the jewelry Duane Wilderforce had arranged to borrow from Cartier for her to wear. The malachite-and-gold parure – tiara, earrings, necklace, and brooch – took everyone’s breath as “Mama,” the Farm’s cook, strutted her stuff. Wrists and fingers bare, she wished for bracelets and a ring, but made of best of their bare situation, using them in the air almost as a dancer might. She was entertaining in her own right.

Mama’s eyes missed nothing about the wraithlike females in sheaths whose long, skinny arms (with bracelets) pretended to embrace men and blew air-kisses – “mwah” – indiscriminately. None seemed actually to talk, only to utter approving noises and an occasional, “Really?” in mock surprise. One, seeming to do service as a stand-in for Edith Piaf – small boned, shriveled skin, smeary lipstick, and raspy lungs – was companion to fat, fussy Virgil Ledbelli, art critic for Washington Square’s Queer Art Blast.

Champion of formless nonsense and mindless muddles, Ledbelli’s invitation was suspicious from the start. But nothing was done about it, some hoping secretly that he might made a scene.

“Better that those two bottom-feeders be here than bruiting about third-hand gossip,” gallery owner Mieczyslaw Brownstone told Ecks. “Both are reckless. But Virgil’s silence is guaranteed if we let him stay. I have Polaroids of him in Mexico pummeling a twelve-year-old who is crying.” To Duane, who had drifted their way, ears on alert, the dealer said, “As for Olga, she’s a harmless fag hag, dead broke, who eats what she can going to events with Virgil.”

Ecks sneered, Duane snickered.

Nearby, Mama’s resplendence caught the eye of a beautiful young fellow being led around by a tall gent with gray temples. They wore matching tuxes, obviously bespoke. She noticed the lapel stitching and aimed a wave at the attractive boy. Amused, he returned the wave. She sailed over, “My, what a handsome young-a man you are! What-a brings you here?”

“Stephanos is my name and my man brought me here.” 

“J. Carter Springwell, ma’am, J.C. as known to beautiful ladies. We’re here to see the exhibition. May we know who you are?”

“Maria Cortelini, and-a you are in-a for a treat. But wait, I can-a introduce to a very nice-a boy.”

She peered around until Hank van Sant could be spotted standing shyly between some large, potted plant and a nearby enameled pot with ivy growing over an artistic trellis. Her regal finger summoned him right away.

Heads turned as young Hank, in blue suit and jonquil yellow necktie, trotted to Mama, obviously happy to be noticed. “Yes, Mama?”

Eyes locked. Stephanos put out his hand, “I’m Stephanos.”

Hank followed suit, “Hank van Sant.”

“This is my man, J. Carter Springwell.”

Before J.C. could continue the formalities, self-possessed Hank, fourteen, pointed behind with a graceful sweep over his shoulder followed by a coy glance. With aplomb unimaginable a few months prior, he said, “Those are my men.”

When the couple’s mouths opened, Hank said, “You will meet my boyfriend in a minute.”

The minute was there. Duane Wilderforce dinged for attention with a spoon on the lip of his champagne flute. “Gentlemen, ladies,” he nodded at Mama, “we are gathered for the unveiling of the work of an exceptional new eye in the world of black-and-white photography. To introduce the man behind this talent’s development, I call upon The Birchfield Farm’s CEO, my associate and friend, Alan Ecks.”

Ecks mustered a smile. His gloomy voice put on something of a gloss of expression, “I take pride in but no credit for what you are going to see. It is the product of the expertise of our Trainer, Mike Manleigh, and his outstanding student. Mike, if you will make the introduction, I’ll prepare to have the exhibition revealed.”

Applause, polite from guests but strong from Farm staffers, greeted the man whose skills included techniques for acting, playwriting, film making, and still photography. Key to many of the Farm’s successful trysts for clients, Mike knew how to seize a scene. Waited for people to look his way.

Slight body motions (to gather thoughts?) stopped, he raised his head in the silence, glanced slowly right to left (noticing expectancy on everyone’s faces?), only then moving from his position at one side to center himself in front of all (his means of making them focus?), and casting a perfect smile, said, “Well over a year ago, the Farm became the residence of Hiram McLeod, Trainer Randy-James McLeod’s boy.”

Five Providers – Cosmo, Ting, Konstantin, Ahmed, and Samuel (“Sammie”) – clapped, but were shushed.

“Our period of adjustment held many uneasy moments, I admit. But once Hiram had received from Ben, Javier, Ahmed, Uldis, Lon, Konstantin, Belamy, Félix, and Sammie – for his thirteenth birthday – a Nikon Coolpix digital camera with attachments, he was on his way.”

Lon said to Uldis, “That’s the breath control he’s taught us in acting class – all those words and no sign he’d run out of air.”

Mike, undistracted by what several could hear, went on, “Barring a few missteps which we won’t mention, Hiram discovered that his eyes could see differently, aesthetically, if you will.”

“That’s-a not all,” Mama spoke up, spilling some champagne from her crystal flute. “I got him-a first in-a my kitchen. He’s the best-a sous-chef and-a I taught-a him!”

J.C., Stephanos, and several other strangers to the mix were startled by whoops and cheers from half the room. Hank poked Stephanos, “And I’m his sous-chef now.”

“That lady’s your chef?” Stephanos wondered sibilantly.

As Hank whispered, “You’d better believe it,” Mike took over, composed as before. “Thank you Mama. Quite right. There’s more than one talent involved with our young man, but only one that brings us together tonight.”

Satisfied by the recognition, Maria Cortelini regained her dignified manner, holding high her head with its tiara.

“I present my protégé, Hiram David McLeod.”

Hiram, who had waited patiently beside his father, walked over to Mike and shook his hand in grown-up fashion. The marine blue suit and yellow tie were mates to Hank’s.

That the two might be mated in another sense was not lost on ever-alert Stephanos, who instinctively hugged Hank.

The voice which spoke was clear. “I had a rough upbringing until my father took me to live with him on the Farm. The friends I’ve made there are captured in many of the photographs you will see tonight. Faces you see around you and the bodies beneath the clothes they are wearing are among my subjects.”

Because Hiram dropped his voice, people thought he had finished. Ecks did, and almost pulled the switch to open the curtained entrance – that is, until Hiram spoke something unrehearsed. “If all the Farm’s Providers will kindly face the men in the room, they can see who I get to know for free and who they can get to know for a lot of money.”

The room went up in an uproar of embarrassed laughter, applause, and at least one yelled-out “Olé!”Ecks threw the switch hard. Open flew the curtains. Hiram ducked past him, expecting the worst, but smug in having pulled such a prank. He was, after all, fourteen and full of himself.

The gallery was laid out as a series of parallel walls, each devoted to a particular subject. Facial portraits met the bobbing mob close-up. Each bore a red dot. People split left and right to reach the next, torsos clad and unclad; split again for the next wall, whole bodies (some in skin-tight, white bathing suits); the wall after, couples engaged romantically (clothed and unclothed to varying degrees); after that, body parts displayed alluringly, the backmost wall, body parts up-close in actual sex. 

After a lightning-fast first look-over, Randy-James considered strangling somebody until he heard names being bandied about in hushed tones: Edward Weston, Ansel Adams, Margaret Bourke-White, Bruce Weber, Richard Avedon, Diane Arbus, Sally Mann….

Nurse Blaine Rockwell restrained his friend, “Don’t be rash. This is a hit!”

Duane Wilderforce tugged at them, his baritone voice authoritative, “You two, out of people’s way. This is marvelous.”

Over the public’s din of astonished gasps, admiring remarks, occasional curses, muffled guffaws and… – someone turned from the rear wall and exclaimed, “Oh…my…god, look! Everybody turn around! The back of each wall has – ohmigod – more, and they get better!”

Pandemonium broke out as heads turned. A few saw the nature studies on the gallery’s side walls – grasses (one showing the unmistakable length of a black snake wriggling), shrubs (with butterflies) and bushes (with birds), an old straw hat (clouds visible through its interstices), insects such as grasshoppers (nibbling) and ants (a column marching straight into the camera lens), bare farm furrows (an abstract pattern caused by late afternoon shadows), a town square lamppost at night (a single moth blurrily circling). More eyes fell on incredible close-ups of veins under skin on brows, necks, arms and hands, penises from all angles erect and flaccid, and varicose types on ankles.

Reversing direction, a wall of kisses from innocent to intimate, another of hands fondling cocks and balls and fingers toying with asses, tongues between toes; the next featuring tight shots of nipples (being manipulated, cupped, alligatored), butts (bearing paddle- and hand-prints, engaged by dildos and plugs), scrotums (banded, stretched, being flicked by a tiny whip), the next-to-last hung with computer-manipulated photographs – surreal scenes suggestive of mysterious events – and the final wall hung with a dozen red-dotted views of Hank, a quasi-chronological survey of his tortured back, its welts and weals, its healing, and of the rest of his anatomy as it had blossomed under good care.

Hank, separated from J.C. and Stephanos, slipped to where Hassan Yasamin, Duane’s exotic more-than-partner, was guarding Hiram. The three embraced, soon joined by the Farm’s Asian sensation, willowy Ting, who had been nudged from his buddies Sammie and Cosmo. Ting said breathlessly, “This is fan-damn-tastic, Hiram.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get anything to eat,” Hiram complained. “Could you sneak back in the front room and get me some of those snack-things and maybe something to drink?”

“Sure!” Ting dashed along a side wall back into the empty foyer where one of the gay (what else?) caterers had replenished the goodies. “I need some of these and a glass of…” he said just as the front door banged open and Alejandro Mendez, an early client of Ting’s burst in.

“Goddamn plane from Mexico City was late!” he said before one of his fantasies alive again. “Dios mio! They had you here to greet me!”

Rude as ever, Mendez grabbed a mushroom hors-d’oeuvre, hardly chewed before swallowing it, and guzzled down the contents of the flute from Ting’s hand.

Never slow to pick up on a cue, Ting flung himself on the burly Mexican, “My jefe! You’ve finally come back! Quick, though, you’re missing all the fun in there. Go in where all the important people are. I’ll join you in a minute. I’m on an errand to rescue a friend.”

Mendez fell for it and vanished.

A sigh of relief at the result of his ruse, Ting prevailed on a boyishly-cute caterer (whose name tag read FRANCIS) to follow him with a de-corked bottle of Louis Roederer and a plate of fresh-from-the-oven nibbles. They zipped past views of barn planks, hay piles, a rusty barbed-wire fence surrounded by scrub brush, the under-carriage of a tractor, a discarded blonde wig, and a pile of very cummy condoms. In sight, Hiram and company.

The four were hungry and thirsty in that order. Stephanos thought he recognized Francis from the secretive Hyacinthus Union to which he and J.C. belonged. Then, he realized the waiter was too old. Francis noticed Stephanos and pursed his lips into a silent no-no. Maybe he’s not too old – or some man’s discard. Francis intended to slip back to the foyer and his job, yet mis-managed his exit.

In his haste, Francis bumped a tall, white-haired, elderly man, pushing him into his decades-younger companion, who barely managed to stabilize his husband. “Dalton, are you all right?” Both glared at Francis.

“I do beg your pardon.” Less automatically, “I am so sorry.”

Hassan appeared, followed by Duane and Alan Ecks. Francis vanished faster than a magician’s rabbit. “Dear fellow, I hope you weren’t harmed by that oaf,” Duane welcomed his friend. “Edwin, dear, is he okay?”

Félix, darted over to see whether he could help. Hassan, too. Both concerned.

“Dalton Brawne-Owen is sturdier than he looks,” was the amused reply.

Relieved sighs were heard.

“I would be if Young Edwin Owen-Brawne would unhand me,” came the hearty bellow.

Ecks wanted in, “I understand you’ve been swaying the ladies with your Art Institute tours. No need to look embarrassed Edwin, I have it on the authority of Lonnie Milford.”

The name startled Edwin. “You know her? Great Scott, she’s one of my favorites in Chicago! She snuck me some good scotch once – just when I needed it. Love her!”

Conversations not dissimilar were in progress throughout the room. Konstantin was listening to a proposal from muscular Nicholson Duval (it involved his new, custom-made flogger); Mama had Cosmo looking for Wyvis Wellborn (“Your best-a papa”); Carlton Mosely O’Keefe was bending Blaine Rockwell’s ear (about another line-up of dicks for his friend ‘Mr. Flinger’ to suck in the pool at Poole’s Gym); Ledbelli and lady were jockeying for a chance to worm their way into Mike Manleigh’s circle (Vasily Naplekov and Sydney Cohen) and its talk of “custom videos;” ‘Big Ben’ Arrowsmith was being introduced by Félix Patrice to a size queen already salivating over the two of them; the team of femme Sammie (if you must, Samuel) and albino Clyff (Clyfford) were flirting with a man to whom Ecks, no less, had pointed them (“Duval says the guy’s dying to pluck a pair of virgin chicks. Cast your Easter-best spell and we’ll reel him in.”); and so forth.

Ultimately, everything to do with The Birchfield Farm was business. Business was the order of every day and many nights. That this one stood poised for transactions became obvious. Ecks blinked the gallery’s overhead lights twice in rapid succession. Duane clapped his hands several times. Lighting on the photographs remained constant.

“Enthusiasts! Time has come to finalize your purchases.” Duane’s manner was virtually that of a commanding officer to his troops. “Messrs Ecks and Brownstone will handle your cash or credit cards and take orders for additional prints. These photographs are copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way. They are for personal appreciation.”

Ecks stepped forward, “Those who wish to commission photographs of yourselves may do so at the table manned by Hiram himself and Mike Manleigh.” Heads turned at that. “To discuss future sessions with our Providers, speak to Mr. O’Keefe and Nurse Rockwell at their table also in the lobby or foyer area. Otherwise, you are free to contact me by our usual means concerning your desires. Any questions?”

A hand shot up. Nicholson Duval asked, “Might you give us some word about the new cabins under construction?”

The room hummed with puzzlement as Ecks stewed for a few seconds longer than he should have. “We have cleared the land for our forthcoming erection…” – he smiled as a few laughed – “…not of the cabins originally discussed but of a single structure of novel design. More I cannot reveal now, but rest assured that it will let us enter an entirely new phase of services. That’s it.”

“One more question, if you don’t mind.” J. Carter Springwell exuded quiet certitude. Hank looked his way as did Mama. Everyone did while Ecks was made to wait until the newcomer chose to speak. “If your new facility will contain a suitably large room and a proper piano, I and certain associates will be most interested.”

What?

Duane knew exactly what the potential was. He replied colloquially, “Let’s us speak together about that.”

* * *

By eleven, the crowd had dispersed. Although not a sellout, the event had succeeded tremendously. Even Virgil Ledbelli had signed up – and paid – to have his portrait taken by Hiram. Queer duck that he was, he was hot to get close to Hiram. Oh yes!

Mama surrendered her Cartier parure wistfully to the guard provided and waved him off. Took pains to thank Duane with one of her mothering hugs. Grabbed Hassan just to sniff his raven curls. Confided to Hank her concern that, “Your-a Hiram’s gonna need a guard. You-a watch out for-a him, you hear-a me?”

There had been no problems with the services of Vigilant Valets. Dick’s Catering – motto: “We serve the best with discretion” – had cleared away and cleaned as per contract and, with the exception of waiter Francis, had gone.

Francis lingered, desolate and desperate. Hassan saw him, smiled, asked no questions, and introduced him to Duane. They conferred. A decision was taken. Sino-Moroccan and nervous companion left together on foot.

The old Darrington Hotel, two blocks away, was destination for most. All walked – Mama swished along between Charles and Wade, Randy-James set the pace for his son, Hiram, and Hank (who held hands), Trainers and Providers intermixed, straggling here and there. Spirits ran high.

Of the event’s many guests, two only had been booked in the Darrington, Edwin and Dalton. Hassan’s call from the lobby found them freshened. And, “Yes certainly,” they were ready to accept to their room, an apologetic Francis.

His timorous posture attracted their interest. Edwin reached not for Francis’ hand to shake but for the bridge of his nose. “Look, Dalton, what a fine line this has.”

Dalton took up position behind to feel Francis’ mastoid bones and line of neck as Edwin carefully opened his white shirt to free the space for warm hands to glide further. Contact with clavicles and sternum, then down to nipples would have been sufficient to render the impressionably nervous nineteen-year-old giddy, but it was Edwin’s hands alternating on his crotch at the same time that caused him to swoon.

What they saw of Francis’ body as they stripped him pleased both. A pillow under his head on their large bed and hot washcloths to his pale skin brought him to, slightly dazed, then chagrined.

“Shhh,” Dalton touched the boy’s lips. “We’re glad to have this opportunity to get to know you. Are you ticklish?”

As much as a minute of hysterical giggling and squeals later, Francis relaxed.

“That’s better, now isn’t it? You’re not worried we won’t like you.”

“You know we do,” Edwin said, kissing the hairless nipple nearest him.

Avuncular Dalton, eighty-one, said, “You must feel odd that you are naked and we are clothed. Let us remedy that to help you feel at home here.”

Each to his side of the bed stripped adroitly. Neither wore more than a Darrington bathrobe. Francis took in Edwin’s lanky, youthful frame and clock-hand-perfect penis pointing at noon. His own, half-size by comparison, stood firm, scrotum drawn up tightly. He turned, not knowing what to expect of the distinguished old man, to be mortified by the largest “thing” he had ever seen. Eight, perhaps nine inches long and stuffed-sausage thick, it hung out like a sagging cantilever.

“Oh my….”

“Shhh, don’t say it,” reminded Dalton. “Put out your arms for us.”

Their necks pinned his arms where bed and pillows met. Hands pulled a spotlessly fresh sheet over them.

Edwin took the lead in questioning Francis Mathus about his childhood, growing up, schooling, sexual experience, work, hopes… Dalton, a reassuring hand simply resting palm down on the smallest genitalia he had touched in many, many years, asked other questions and made approving sounds as he snuggled encouragingly.

To Francis nothing like what he had imagined, the experience – of not being belittled combined with Edwin’s hand rubbing his stomach lightly and Dalton’s gently groping his balls and cock – held him in thrall. He wasn’t being criticized. They did like him. He poured out his desire to be “worth something.”

His passive nature, instead of endearing him to others usually provoked their contemptuous use of him. Praise seldom had come his way, so his education lacked spark. Little motivated him where he grew up in the hamlet of Hensonville, New York. He had gone no further than a few classes at a nearby junior college before striking out for the big city.

Francis had become an easy lay, passed around among would-be and real Alpha types then dropped. With no intellectual stimuli and little curiosity, he was thought generally dull. People did not seek his company. Tonight’s collision had resulted in his dismissal from Dick’s Catering.

Poor fellow kept to himself the thought his confessions had gone too far, that he would be cast away after whatever sex Edwin and Dalton might want from him. Sex at least would make the night bearable.

How wrong he was. It would become far more than that.

A sociologist renowned for his research into sexuality, Dalton recognized at once incipient depression. This desperately impoverished spirit might be salvaged but not in this context. Perhaps a calm night….

Edwin sensed similarly as a spark jumped between their two, attuned minds. His experience with the interpretation of works of art, of understanding them technically from their grounds up to final image, of the hows and whys of their viewer affect, and his profound relationship with Dalton made him, in a sense, an analyst of the human condition.

Dalton broke the state of suspended animation by, “Francis, do you like ice cream? We do, late at night. Your favorite flavor?”

“Uh, strawberry, if that’s all right.”

“Of course. Edwin, order us bowls of vanilla and one of strawberry from room service, and some chocolate sauce.”

Edwin, a quick study, figured why and made the call. “We’ll be lucky if they get it here in fifteen minutes, they’re so busy.”

“Perfect! There’s time for our new friend to take a shower. Why don’t you show him in there,” he indicated the bathroom, “and help him if he’s a little unsteady.” It wasn’t a question.

A towel in his hand for Francis’ shy exit from the shower, Edwin said, “Since we want you with us all night, wouldn’t it be prudent, you know, to flush?” From its place on a shelf that Francis had been too confused to notice he took, Edwin took own syringe and squeezable bulb. “Here, I’ll prepare it for you.”

Sunset red, Francis stared, not making a move.

“You want to be clean inside the way you are outside, don’t you?”

Beet red, Francis allowed himself to be bent, lubed, penetrated, and filled so alacritously that he gasped.

“Now, now, it’s best not to tarry. You’re probably better at it than I am, but I have to make sure, you understand.” Edwin removed the syringe right away, saying, “Hold it now. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

“I guess,” Francis tried to sound sure.

“Great, because there’s the knock from room service. Our ice creams have arrived.”

“Hel-lo!” Dalton effused. “Let’s sit on the floor together. Edwin, put a towel under our guest so he won’t worry about a leak.”

That there was a lot of delicious chocolate sauce on his huge scoop of strawberry made Francis feel special.He dug in and enjoyed spoonful upon spoonful until his bowl was empty. By the time he finished and had waited for his hosts to savor their vanilla’s last remnants, pangs of urgency caused him to declare, “I’ve got to go – in there.”

His absence behind a well-closed bathroom door let Dalton explain the presence of a crushed half-tablet of Valium under Francis’ chocolate sauce. “So our downtrodden baby can get worry free sleep and we can do some figuring of our own.”

* * *

In the five-star Ainsley Arms lounge, J. Carter Springwell sat back satisfied with the selection of twenty-one photographs by Hiram David O’Keefe made by Darryl Daniels for the permanent collection of the Leslie-Lohman Museum of Art – his gift.

Daniels, who had responded to a call from none other than “that dreadful Virgil Ledbelli,” held the post as Springwell Curator of Photography. Told peremptorily and at breakneck speed that “this is the most eye-busting show you can imagine and guess who, your endower, is here with that boy of his practically drooling over some absurd broad wearing a fuckin’ king’s ransom in jewelry and the goddam photographer’s a thirteen or fourteen-year-old kid – a boy – who lives in the world’s classiest male whore house. Swallow that, and get your faggot ass here.”

Daniels had been reluctant to admit that in the presence of Duane Wilderforce, Alan Ecks, Randy-James O’Keefe and Mike Manleigh who were at the table, their cocktails drained or nearly so. However, certain of the boy’s works had flabbergasted him. “They’ve so many qualities that deserve being brought into our holdings, I hardly know where to begin. Gelatin silver prints, my god!”

“No need, Darryl. I’ll arrange my contribution tomorrow and the Museum can make the purchase upon receipt of your invoice, Alan.” J.C. let his delight show. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me. Stephanos and I are flying to Athens tomorrow evening.”

“I’ll leave now as well,” Darryl Daniels rose. “There’ll be some explaining to do at the Museum’s staff meeting tomorrow morning. Thank you for the drink, J.C., and for the commitment.”

Nods of understanding. Heads bent together over how to deal with Virgil Ledbelli. Mike had the solution, “I’ll call with our invitation to have Hiram also photograph that lady friend of his for free.”

“Olga Smirnova? What a mess she is,” someone sighed.

“Hiram and I will take care of her.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Duane, glancing up at a curious-looking fellow with spiked-up hair and a lean look who faced them. “Yes?”

“Victor Vermont. I was at the exhibition.”

“We saw you,” Ecks said.

“I have an idea for some business we might do, but wasn’t sure whether to speak to Hiram directly or to someone else.”

“You’ve found us. Have a seat. Drink?”

“Johnny Walker and soda,” Vermont told the waiter. “I’m with Tallmark Greeting Cards. Before you wonder, yes, we’re known for posy-strewn, saccharine-sweet messages for little old ladies and children’s birthday silliness. Big money in those. However, some of us have been discussing for some time a specialized line of appeal to an area of the gay market so far untouched – boys and their lovers. Underwriting from an international organization can cover production costs including photography. After what I saw, I think Hiram’s who we need.”

Randy-James wanted to know what the subjects might be.

Vermont raised his glass and took a mouthful. “Pretty good.” He savored, swallowed, continued, “Think greeting cards for the just deflowered, or perhaps to celebrate a youth’s first job as a rent-boy. Someone’s boy-toy. Maybe a congratulatory card for a boy’s first wet cum or semen production – with a tissue inside? Now, that might be fun. Or like, to mark a first gang-bang with wishes of many more (a smiling boy on the front). Or a ‘Sorry I got sand in your butt at the beach’ card.”

Ecks may not have laughed, but Duane did heartily. Mike joined, encouraging Blaine (who had just walked up) and Randy-James.

“Anything else in mind?” Mike, already thinking imagery, keenly wanted to know.

“Something with chocolate sauce as a lube and the message ‘Good to lick off, too!’ – say, sweet things involving candy or other treats for good boys on the front, tawses for bad boys on the inside – or vice-versa. An erect man’s penis with a doughnut hanging on it, or even one with an M&M in its slit. Erection-shaped popsicles for ‘Summer slurp fun.’ Nice cards that say merely ‘You are always a sweet treat for me.’"

“Mike and I’ll talk to Hiram,” Randy-James said.

“Let me have your card,” Ecks extended his hand as he stood. “I’ll get back to you.”

Duane was certain, “I’ll see to it.”

* * *

The moment they reached their room in the Darrington, Hiram and Hank, anxious to shower, helped each other out of their shoes and socks, suits, ties, shirts, and underwear. Splashes went everywhere. Their hands did, too. Couldn’t keep them off every place that counted for what they wanted to do – fuck. Pent-up energy of psyched teens needed release, but so did emotional excitement. Together in the country’s biggest city, in a private room not even on the same floor as anyone with authority over them, they intended help themselves to pleasure.

The minibar, they had noticed, had all sorts of no-no liquors. Hard stuff that was forbidden but, miraculously, a couple of small bottles of Freixenet bubbly and a larger one of orange juice which they could mix. “We had some champagne at the exhibition so we can have this stuff, I know,” Hiram assured Hank. “Anyway, there’re some peanuts we can eat, too.”

“Nobody can tell in the morning, can they?” Hank wanted to be sure – as he watched Hiram filling paper cups.

Handing over one and raising his in the gesture of a toast, Hiram grinned, “Not if we’re down at breakfast before anybody else. Here’s to fun! Ours.”

Once downed, the alcohol played its part in record time. Exhilaration boosted both to make out with abandon. They had taken to kissing. Some of it just came to them. Some came from secret videos they’d watched in Randy-James’ bedroom when he wasn’t around. Hiram had figured out how to work the equipment without leaving a trace.

Fucking – they’d discovered that early on, with gratitude now for Nurse Blaine’s artifices then. Seeing Hiram’s favorite videos of an older man taking great pleasure from a transsexual boy face-to-face had spurred them to favoring the position.

When kissed to the point of distraction by Hiram, Hank’s legs would open. Hiram, lubed quickly, would assume the upper role and take possession, cock all-in causing nothing but Hank’s keen desire to be loved thus. His legs, strong from farm work, knew their place and went on their own around Hiram.

Bound by a force neither actually understood, they pitched at each other with equal strength fighting for the night’s first orgasm. Barely pausing for recovery, they went right back to the battle. Some tricks whispered by Sammie when no one knew the three were conferring bolstered Hank to use his bottom on Hiram whenever Hiram slowed, coaxed Hank into playing with Hiram’s ass to drive his libido into higher production, even emboldened the once painfully shy, much mistreated boy into smacking Hiram’s butt if, say, on the third or fourth round of a fuck time, Hank thought Hiram slacking.

“I’m always on top,” Hiram had told Sammie back when they first began to score regularly, “but Hank’s in control.” It surprised Hank but not as much as Sammie’s having kissed him full on the lips and saying, “You’re great for Hiram.”

* * *

Breakfast at the Darrington saw sleepy-eyed and fully-awake in impromptu groupings among the potted palms. Charles kidded Wade, “Ours don’t look as good.” Wade kidded back, “But our service is better than the staff’s here.” They went to sit with Hank and Hiram, already wolfing down piled-high plates of eggs, grits, sausage patties, and toast. Guys came and went, most popping by Hank and Hiram’s table to kid them about getting fat, to show thumbs up over either their relationship or last evening’s show, a few to wish well the morning’s photography project.

A chartered tour bus whisked most Farm people from the Darrington to see Gotham’s sights,

Down the street, details of invoicing, packing, and shipping were occupying those involved at MW ART by the time Mike, Hiram, and Hank strode past the appointment-only sign and entered, camera equipment in hand.

Mieczyslaw Brownstone (the name changed from the Polish Złóg) effused over seeing them. “Just the place for you dears in the back.”

Rigged was a black-draped, large triptych of pine two-by-fours (guaranteed “not to fall over”) and a choice of chairs. As for lights, “Use any you want. We’ve plenty as you see, all types.”

* * *

Virgil Ledbelli and Olga Smirnova appeared tricked out in their tatty best, Virgil’s head stuffed with prepared questions for the interview he intended to trick Hiram into giving him exclusively. His first surprise was to be greeted in the backroom at MW ART by Hank van Sant, clipboard in hand.

“I’ll do your in-take,” young Hank said. “You’re here for separate portraits. Headshots, torsos – like that. Or, if you’d like, Hiram can pose you together. So, while you think about that, first question: Would you like to be fully clothed as you are, partially clothed, or nude?” Pen poised, Hank’s face all innocence – professional, it might be said.

“The lady first.”

Olga sputtered. Pursing her mouth, her caked lipstick cracked. He left eye couldn’t open (double false eyelashes stuck in mascara), so her right blinked, meaninglessly flirting.

Hank stood his ground. “Please, ma’am.”

Virgil’s protest, “Why you…,” was cut short Mike Manleigh’s arrival with Hiram McLeod, and an unexpected question posed to Hank. “Have their releases been signed?”

“No,” Hank shook his head. “They haven’t begun to do their part.”

Mike began setting up stand lights. Clicked on a few. Searched for extension cords while Hank used Mike’s ’phone and took pictures.

Hiram went straight to Olga, jammed his face at hers. “Marvelous. May I?” His hands seized her cheeks. Rice powder coated his fingers. As he shifted her head to let light strike it in different ways, enough of the odd stuff fell off to reveal a russet liver spot shaped like an inkblot. He swallowed his mirth, “I must have this face – all of it – in every way. Mike, have you seen anything like it?”

Virgil’s surprise was doubly one of shock. What on earth? Pulling himself together, he spouted, “Young man, unhand my…”

“Oh, hi, Mr. Ledbelli. I’ll get to you. Did you bring a laurel wreath?” Not expecting a reply, Hiram stared, clear eyes into Olga’s bloodshot ones. “So much character, like a gnarled oak I admire.”

Mike produced a light meter and jockeyed around. The confusion created – exactly what he had planned with the boys.

Discombobulation and hullaballoo, disconcertingly lightning-fast over the next hour, produced all the images needed for another solo show of Hiram David McLeod’s photography. Months would be needed, of course, months of filtering, editing, other processes.

But.

The Pieta series alone would stop traffic. Virgil holding Olga across his lap, one breast bared; Olga holding Virgil similarly sprawled stomach down, his face to her shoulder, bottom partially bared; Hank in Olga’s arms as if slain, his chin-up head laid back into space; Virgil, face wailing like the Greek mask of tragedy nestling an apparently dead Hank in his arms; all four photographed exactly in the same poses but in their underwear; and again, all without a stitch on.

Initially appalled, Mieczyslaw Brownstone saw the harsh lighting’s effect was creating a possibly-new reality to the odd-matched personages in poses reminiscent of Michelangelo. Parodies? No, something with unexplored potential. Interpretations.

The portraits – seeing them being brought into being – took such breath as remained in his jaundiced career. He had helped Hank strip his gallery’s ivy plant of its leaves to fashion a wreath for Virgil Ledbelli’s head. The pose, taken from low looking up, showed Virgil, swagged in black, head up like a Roman senator (or poet), jowls and mole-ridden neck sagging, crowned by a circlet of ivy. Absurdist, yet strangely moving. Olga’s face, eyes bulging, mascara running, distorted by a scream (caused by Hank sneaking behind as Hiram counted “3 – 2 – 1” and fearlessly ramming fingers up into her vagina). Once cropped, the image would terrify. Virgil and Olga in profile, their noses just touching, eyes on the camera, tongues stuck out. Three naked butts aligned for the lens – Virgil’s on the left (scrotum dangling), Olga’s in the center (labia hanging), Hank’s on the right (balls drawn tight, as if undescended completely, thanks to treatment by an ice cube).

Facial details. Who would have thought – crows’ feet so close individual pores were discernable; bags under the eyes of each taken from mid-pupil; their nostrils’ flare; ear lobes (hers ravaged by scars from multiple piercings, his sprouting long hairs); mouths pouted and ajar (tongues just inside with something on them).

Shadowed acutely, a group of moles on a patch of crepe-texture skin.

Mieczyslaw reeled at the flow of ideas between Mike and Hiram and Hank, and at Hiram’s ability to draw from the unwitting models whatever he and Mike wanted. He speculated that the boy had training in hypnosis – how was that possible? – yet, Hiram planted suggestions in a half-voice to positive effect: “That’s good…Oh, you’ve got it…Just like that…You’ll be so admired…God, what courage you show…The world has to see this…You’re going to be famous.”

‘Famous’ registered with Olga, then with Virgil. They redoubled their efforts to cooperate.

A final shoot was proposed. Mieczyslaw stood in his well-structured business suit, arms folded, eyes into the camera, with naked, roly-poly Virgil and scrawny Olga groveling at his custom-made John Lobbs; Mieczyslaw stood, coat open because his arms were extended to either side seeming to gesture the rise of Virgil and Olga to their arms’ extent; Mieczyslaw, his arms around the standing figures of the two nudes, their heads on his shoulders and smiles on their faces, hands covering their privates like aged figures of an overfed Adam and a starving Eve.

At the last moment before the shutter clicked, Hank tossed to Adam’s feet the core of an apple he had been eating. It leaned against one toe. The effect: brilliant.

* * *

Hiram’s other commissions sailed smoothly through the afternoon: Farm clients Wyvis Wellborn, Nicholson Duval, Alejandro Mendez, Carlton Mosely O’Keefe, and potential clients, corporate head Pavlos Pisauris, investment counselor Clarence Schnicke, attorney Frederick Edison, and Peter Windsor-Hewitt, a former television executive (said to have royal connections). Heads-and-shoulders, dignified-friendly, the lot.

When he saw something in a pose Hiram did not, Mike Manleigh maneuvered the men, made a few suggestions, kept track of the shots, double-checked contact information and addresses, and created light humor as needed. Rapport.

* * *

After a morning of loving, demanding sex as to excite him to three orgasms, Francis Mathus was shown the resplendent Frick Collection by Edwin, with Dalton listening and prompting. An El Greco flanked by Holbeins, a Bellini flanked by Titians, a marble-top table by Boulle and cabinets by van Risenburgh in one room alone may not have been lost on him entirely for Edwin’s descriptions were simple. Francis could follow them, if not remember much of what was said. Veronese, Ingres, Fragonard, Boucher, Vermeer, Goya, Rembrandt, van Dyck – the names ran together.

What his eyes seized on was the protruding codpiece worn by a young man painted by someone named Bronzino. Francis wanted to know all about that. Was the young man hard? How had it been a fashion to show that? Where were his balls, if his cock was that thick?

They guided him to Brueghel’s The Three Soldiers for the sight of a different way in a different country during the same century, the sixteenth, to display one’s cods. Could they do something like that with his balls, so they could be seen under his clothes? Francis was becoming curious.

Edwin remonstrated gently, “This is not the place, Francis.”

* * *

“Félix Patrice, it is true,” Alan Ecks told Dalton rather formally, “has demonstrated his value to us in ways upon which we have not yet fully capitalized. The Birchfield Farm is grateful that you scouted him for us through Duane.”

Duane knew where Alan was heading, yet nodded affirmatively. Nearby, Hassan sat mute.

“After hearing your story of Francis, I sympathize for the woebegone young man but see no way we can take him on. We aren’t a charity.”

Seldom stumped, Dalton looked hard at Ecks before eyeballing Duane’s face. His hope for support of his idea crashed at what came out of his old friend’s mouth.

“Dalton, if this young man were remotely ready for our kind of work, we might be interested. He isn’t, you know. So, we can’t be, what with currently going into construction mode with the expansion project. Our trainers are over-scheduled.”

Ecks had the temerity to add, “Our Providers don’t need an untrained pet to house-break.”

Duane intuited that Dalton was about to blow a circuit. He raised his hands, fingers out the way Hassan did sometimes when admitting no contest in an argument. “The young man’s despair makes him the object of your bounteous pity. So, if you’re so interested in his well-being, why don’t you and Edwin take him with you to Chicago?”

“For one thing, Duane, we have a charming Indo-Malaysian, Afzal Chaudhary, living with us. He and Edwin are at the University. Our house has only the two bedrooms, you see.”

“Would this Afzal like a bedmate?”

“He’s ours sometime but he also has a girlfriend. Afzal fancies her, too. The boy’s versatile,” Dalton smirked.

Impasse

* * *

Thursday saw the common-cause guests at two New York hotels off to their flights home. To London went Hassan and Duane, investments to attend to; to Chicago, Alan, Dalton, Edwin, and nervous-but-elated Francis; to The Birchfield Farm, the others laden with souvenirs and memories.

The McLeods, Hank and Randy-James, had been to dinner with Hank at the extensive Upper East Side apartment occupied Mieczyslaw Brownstone and a pair of drop-dead-handsome, quite slender, tall, twenty-year-old twins, Floyd and Florian West. First names suited. “We have an arrangement,” was all Mieczyslaw explained.

“We model clothing,” Florian said. “For magazine ads and catalogues,” Floyd finished.

To accompany perfectly chilled Dom Perignon and piping hot slices of foie gras on toast – viewed askance by the two Farm boys – there had been conversation about the exhibition, its sales, its attendees and their interrelationships, and, naturally, the wild session devoted to photographing Virgil and Olga.

Hiram answered the twins’ demurely-put inquiries about “those two old trolls” in details some of which Randy-James had not heard. At Mieczyslaw’s urging, Hank embellished, causing laughter. Floyd and Florian regretted having to miss the evening.

“We were on the runway at Lagerfeld’s charity show.”

“You wouldn’t believe some of the outfits.”

To Hiram’s ear, they sounded alike. It didn’t matter which spoke. Hank, however, tried to tell which was which. That was hopeless. Voices as identical as faces.

During truffle-roasted Cornish hens on beds of wild mushrooms with Brussel Sprouts in browned butter, Floyd and Florian were fluent with their silver utensils. Hank noticed first and kicked Hiram under the table to watch. The visiting boys braved their birds with knives and forks – not badly – and devoured the savory, if skimpy flesh and mushrooms ravenously. They tried not to make faces while eating some of their sprouts.

Champagne flowed throughout as did talk of sex (in which only the two men showed interest).

For someone his age to cast a baleful eye, Hiram fairly startled the twins by what they thought was his censorious regard of Randy-James and their protector and sponsor. Not so, it turned out. More than tipsy, Hiram levelled with care not to slur, “You guys – you sound like sex’s just a…com-mod-ity. Hell, you ought see us.”

Hank blushed, chewing half a sprout seriously and almost choking.

“When we fuck, it’s wonderful.”

At that propitious moment, Chef Connard of Dick’s Catering, entered with two Grand Marnier soufflés, followed by a waiter bringing two more. The Farm boys looked on with decided curiosity while another set of two was brought to the table. Chef Connard reappeared with a pan of steaming zabaglione sauce and used a big serving spoon to drop a large dollop into each breathtakingly aromatic, six-inch high dessert.

Hiram blurted, “Hey, we’ve got spoons like that in Mama’s kitchen!”

“He’s fourteen,” Randy-James told the twins. “Not used to drinking.”

Smiles circled the table.