Thanks to Sween for the inspiration. Pow pow pow.
1.
It must be a joke, but if it is Josef doesn’t see the punchline coming. He looks again at the help wanted ad: “July 22, 1968. Writer needed. Must write good. Fast turnaround.” The address matches the squat brick building, but it looks nothing like a publishing house. Not the business tower he’d imagined—just a tired three-story tenement with a seedy bar on the ground floor.
It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have the luxury to refuse an opportunity. He’s been out of the military for a while, and though there jobs for a young man, it’s better not to be asked too many questions about his discharge. Unless he wants to wash dishes, it’s this or leave the city. And he doesn’t want to go home.
He lets himself in through a door that should lock, but doesn’t, and climbs the stairs. There’s noise from behind doors—kids screaming, adults yelling. And smells, of cooking and worse. It’s hard to imagine anything published out of this squalor he’d want his name on.
The door to Unit 3C is ajar, as are several others, no surprise in the sweltering heat.
Josef’s military haircut hasn’t grown out, and his white dress shirt he ironed that morning is crisp. His black pants fit snugly at his 28-inch waist. He straightens his posture, using every inch of his 6’2” frame to project confidence.
He raps lightly on the door, holding it, careful not to push it open. He doesn’t want to be rude—especially if this isn’t the place.
“Hello?”
Inside, the room is sparse—a threadbare sofa, an oscillating fan rustling large sheets of paper taped to the walls. Somewhere deeper, Martha and the Vandellas croon Nowhere to Run.
He steps in quietly and moves toward the sheets. They’re drawings—like comic book pages but larger. Rawer. They’re only penciled in, black and white. But the figures are bolder than comics he read as a kid. There’s an energy that makes them seem to leap off the page.
A gravelly voice comes from deeper inside. The inflections and pauses are conversational, but there’s only one voice. Josef follows the sound to the next room and finds a man seated on a low stool at a drafting table covered in more oversized sheets.
The man wears a loose white t-shirt over broad shoulders that taper sharply at the waist, where his pants are belted. His legs hooked beneath the stool, and the worn soles of his shoes show.
He talks to himself, glancing in a full-length mirror, then penciling something down—repeating the cycle until he catches Josef’s reflection. Spinning around, he surprises Josef.
The man looks younger than expected, given his build. Only a little older than Josef—maybe 26 or 27. It’s hard to say, with his square jaw, but a blunt nose, and boyish cheeks. His dark brown hair is sweaty at the scalp, curling at the ends in the humid air.
“Hello,” Josef says again, stepping forward.
“Oh hey,” the man grins wide.
2.
Josef introduces himself—as Joe—and asks if this is the right address for the writing job.
The man says yes. His name is Ben. Standing, he’s a head shorter than Joe but twice as broad, squared off shoulders topping a blocky chest and long arms. A regular tough guy, but for a disarming smile.
He’s a comic book illustrator, he explains. Freelance. He’s drawing this one but needs help with the scripting. He is, he says, not great with words.
His art is different. The dynamic drawings Joe saw are his, and it’s hard not to notice how much like their artist they are. Square jawed, smiling figures with fists like cinder blocks, energetic.
But the drawings Ben shows Joe for this job are more subdued.
It’s a one-off story, Ben explains, for an issue of Strange Tales of Science—a catch-all for science fiction, the creepy, or in this case, both. It has to go from start to finish in just a few pages.
The title is The Man from Mars. It opens on an ordinary man in an ordinary US city. In the morning, he has a chance encounter with another man who asks if he knows him. No, not at all. But for the rest of his day—going to work, having lunch, taking his girlfriend out on a date—he keeps spotting the other man, at a lunch counter, at a payphone. He’s being followed.
The reader doesn’t know why. Is one of them a commie? A spy?
Our hero finally reaches the sanctuary of his home. There he removes his mask of normalcy, revealing green skin and inhuman eyes. A man from Mars. His secret is safe for one more day.
But there’s a twist: the reader sees his stalker returning to his own home where he also peels off a mask—he too is a Martian. The end.
Joe studies the partial drawings. “Why’s he following him?”
“Not clear,” Ben says, looking slightly frustrated. “That’s why I need a writer.”
It’s a funny way to back into a story, but Joe’s too drawn in to complain.
“He’s looking for his own kind,” Joe suggests. “So he won’t feel so alone.”
Ben raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? I thought maybe one committed a crime or something? And the other guy is Mars police?”
Mmm. That’s only an external conflict.
“No,” Joe says softly. “It’s not about crime. It’s about survival.” His fingertips trace the pencil lines of the Martian’s face. “They’re in hiding because they have to be. They’d be in danger if they’re found out, here where they don’t belong. They could be beaten. Or lynched. They have perfect disguises to blend in, but that means they can’t find each other. They might have subtle signs to signal one another, but if they make a wrong call, reveal themselves to the wrong person...” He lets the thought hang between them. “Our hero’s tragedy is that he’s so afraid of being found out by the enemy he runs from a potential friend.”
Ben considers this and nods. “What’re they doing on Earth?”
Joe shrugs. “There’s a… diaspora? They’re displaced persons.” DPs, some say—a slur. There are always refugees.
“What are they running from?”
Joe turns to face Ben. “Something worse than loneliness.”
His stomach growls.
“The job’s mine,” Ben explains, “but I can’t write for shit. If you can do it, I’ll split the pay.”
The project’s due at the publisher by Friday. It’s a rush job. But they don’t have to do the lettering—the letterer will handle that. Joe only needs to write a script that matches the art.
It’s not the great American novel Joe dreams of writing. But it beats starvation. Or going back home with his tail between his legs.
“Can do,” Joe says.
3.
Ben and Joe fall into an easy rhythm, working around each other.
Ben sits at his drafting table, bringing the story to life. Some pages he finishes in one sitting; others—most, Joe notices—he returns to again and again, filling in panels as inspiration strikes. When he’s done, or done enough, he hangs the sheet on the wall.
Joe moves from one sheet to another, puzzled. “Are these pages in any kind of order?”
“In here.” Ben taps his temple, grinning.
Joe frowns. “Well, they’re not in my head. Not yet.”
He tries to organize the sheets in sequence, leaving spaces for those not yet done. It messes with Ben’s process, but Joe needs to know the order to work out the story from start to finish.
“What’s this blank panel? What’s going on there?” he asks.
“The kiss. The Man from Mars and his girlfriend.”
Ben taps his pencil fast and furrows his brow before turning away. Joe’s eyes follow the back of his neck, the tiny fine hairs on it. Fuck.
He turns back to the empty space on the page.
It was funny how many guys back in the barracks would put their slick cock down his throat. Leave a load in his ass, or take his in theirs. Cross any line in isolated corners or in the showers at certain hours. But a kiss was a bridge too far—except sometimes, in the brief heady afterglow of cumming, when the boundaries melted.
He didn’t mind the rest. He got off on it. But no kissing was hard.
Ben’s pencil tapping snaps Joe back to the present, and the job at hand.
The heat climbs with every hour, dragging humidity with it. Joe’s still in his job-hunting clothes, his shirt wet in his pits and around his belt. He can see why Ben is in just a t-shirt. It’s a marvel he hasn’t ditched his pants yet.
“Hey, do you mind?” he asks Ben, fingers indicating his shirt buttons. The artist shrugs.
Joe unbuttons his white shirt and strips it off. He’s wearing a white tank beneath. Unlike Ben’s loose t-shirt, it’s ribbed and clings to the planes of Joe’s frame. His chest rises in subtle swells of muscle, with a thatch of dark glossy hair trailing down to his abs and spreading on either side like an open book.
His dog tags clink as he drops them into his shirt.
Between jotting down notes on the story, he spies how Ben uses his mirror to test poses, mimicking the action he’s drawing.
He hears his name barely whispered from Ben’s mouth.
Joe looks up. “Did you say something to me?”
“What? Oh.” Ben grins. “Just posing for the diner scene.”He holds up a cup, looking at his own position and expression in the mirror. “‘Cuppa joe.’”
“Oh,” Joe says, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.
His eyes fall to a stack of magazines near Ben—Physique Pictorial and Muscular Development, featuring muscle men like Charles Atlas and Steve Reeves, frozen mid-flex in skimpy swimsuits.
“You like these?” Joe asks.
“For when I do superheroes,” Ben says. “Y’know, muscle guys.”
He gestures to a few finished comic books. Some are mystery and sci-fi; others romance and superheroes. Men with square jaws and blocky shoulders, throwing massive punches. And a few voluptuous women.
“They’re good,” Joe says with a chuckle. “They look kind of like you.”
“Damn, I’m trying to get away from that,” Ben groans. “Especially the women.” He tosses a thick rubber eraser at the wall; it bounces off and falls. “That’s what happens when you use yourself to model too much.”
“Maybe I can help you out with that sometime,” Joe chuckles.
His stomach growls, loud enough to be heard.
Ben looks him over. “Let’s get some suds.”
4.
They head downstairs to Hank’s, where the cool air hits Joe’s damp skin like a welcome slap. A dark respite from the heat of the day. He steals a glance at Ben, whose shirt is already soaked through at the pits and back.
“Two,” Ben calls out, and a pair of frosty mugs appear, sweaty with condensation. “Sandwich in a glass,” he says, tipping his mug to clink against Joe’s in a toast.
“Does this happen often?” Joe asks, tossing a handful of free peanuts into his mouth. “These rush jobs? Comics?”
“Sometimes,” Ben shrugs. “Wouldn’t be such a rush if I didn’t wait so long to figure it out. But if we nail this one, there’ll be more.”
We, Joe notes. Interesting choice of words. But he’s more focused on the peanuts, downing one bowl and reaching for another.
“Hey, you want a burger?” Ben asks. Before Joe can answer, Ben booms, “Hey! Couple of cheeseburgers here!”
“Oh—no,” Joe interjects. “I’m not hungry.”
Ben shrugs. “On me.”
Joe yields. He thanks Ben but calls out, “No cheese. Not on mine.”
He’s not kosher, but the old prohibition against dairy with meat is a habit now.
Ben studies him over his beer. “So what got you out of the army?”
“Got in trouble,” Joe says. “For fighting.”
It’s true enough. There were fights. He won most, lost a few.
“I thought that was the point of being a soldier.”
“Yeah, well, not with your own side,” Joe answers. “What about you?”
“Kinda fighting too,” the artist chuckles. “Bad knee. From boxing.”
“You look like a boxer,” Joe says with a grin. Understatement of the year.
He can see Ben in the ring—jaw jutting, fists raised with coiled power. He’d hate to be on the receiving end of one of those punches, though the thought of being manhandled by him gives a rise in his underwear.
Joe doesn’t share that he was never overseas. In screening tests, he scored so high on math and writing they put him to work at a US base on communications. It’s none of Ben’s business.
When the burgers arrive, it’s like a gift from heaven. Salty, fatty. HaMotzi, Joe says silently, HaMotzi.
As his hunger ebbs, his eyes return to Ben, whose lips shine with burger grease.
“When we were kids and me and my cousins acted up, roughhousing and shit, my Bubbe used to say we were full of hops,” the artist shares, chewing with mouth half-full. “I thought she meant jumps, y’know? Then I figured out she meant the hops to make beer. Like we were drunk.”
Joe takes it in. He never knew his own Bubbe.
“The old lady next door used to tell us kids not to hit each other,” Joe offers in return. “Don’t fight with your hands, fight with your mouths.” He chuckles. “She meant for us to debate. Reason things out. We ended up with the meanest mouths in the neighborhood.”
They both laugh.
Joe asks what’s next for Ben after Man from Mars as he wipes his plate clean with the last of his burger bun.
“I got this idea for one called Max Golem,” Ben says. “He fights Nazis.”
“It’s the sixties,” Joe replies, looking into his empty mug. “There’s no more Nazis.”
“There’s always Nazis,” Ben answers, gaze past Joe. “They just change uniforms.”
Joe glances over his shoulder and turns to Ben. “Are the Nazis here now?”
“You’re a laugh riot,” Ben responds with a friendly smirk. He downs his beer and wipes the froth on his thick forearm. “Hey, you want to go back up? I got something to show you.”
Oh yeah, Joe thinks. About damn time.
5.
“More comics?” Joe asks, flipping through illustrated sheets in various stages of completion.
“My comics,” Ben answers, beaming.
“Who’s The Olympian?” Joe points to a thickly built figure—like Ben—in a white t-shirt, winged boots, a quiver of arrows slung across his chest, and a shield on his back.
Ben shrugs. “He’s a guy—an archaeologist and an athlete too—was in the Olympics. The Greek gods picked him to be their champion. To do… stuff. So he’s got their weapons.”
Joe studies the pages. “Like Hermes’ winged shoes… Athena’s shield? And the bow and arrows? Apollo?”
“Eros,” Ben says.
“Really? Cupid? Love arrows?” Joe chuckles.
Ben’s eyes meet his, confident and steady. “Love’s the most dangerous thing of all.”
He has a point.
Joe flips to the next page—a fight scene. “And this is the… Minotaur?” He holds up an image filling the page: a massive brute with broad shoulders, a furry neck, and a horned head, battling the Olympian.
Ben nods. “I started a bunch of comics but never finished them. It’s ideas, mostly.”
There’s the Infinite Man, who wears a bodysuit and a medallion. He taps into an unearthly power source, but only for one hour at a time, Ben explains.
“Not very infinite, is he?” Joe asks.
Ben points to the medallion, with an “I” at its center, tracking borrowed power like a gas gauge.
“So the reader gets a sense of urgency,” Joe nods. “Smart.”
Ben grins.
Then there’s IQ Jones, a younger hero with a close-cropped afro, in a mod outfit with blocky patterns—a kind of amped-up version of what some young guys wear now.
“Y’know how they say we only use 10% of our brain power? IQ Jones cracked the code to use 100%.”
“So he’s super smart. But he knows how to use his strength too, right?” Joe asks. “Maybe kind of a jokester. He could narrate his stories and drop science facts like bombs.”
“IQ points!” they blurt simultaneously and laugh.
“This is great stuff. Fantastic,” Joe says. His own writing seems ponderous beside Ben’s art. It’s all action—more than The Man from Mars—usually fist first. The panels are like those 3-D movies you need special glasses to see properly—but on a page. He’s never seen anything like it.
“So… all these ideas of yours. Who owns them? The characters?”
“The publisher, if I use them on a job now” Ben sighs. “I’m just work-for-hire.”
It doesn’t sit right with Joe that Ben should come up with all these ideas to enrich someone else. But he has no alternative to offer. And it’s late, and solutions seem as distant as the moon.
“It’s after midnight. I’d better get going.”
“Eh, you can crash here,” Ben offers.
Joe protests weakly that he can make it home, but exhaustion and hopes for something more win out.
He flops down onto Ben’s sofa, but the artist invites him to share his bed. “Don’t worry. No funny business,” he chuckles.
When they strip down to their underwear on either side of Ben’s bed, the artist catches sight of the dog tags hanging from Joe’s neck, resting in the dark thatch of hair in the center of his chest. Joe notices Ben’s focus and puts his hand over them. “Habit.”
“You see any action?” Ben asks.
Not the kind the artist means, Joe thinks. “Not much.”
It’s hard not to stare at Ben. A boxer’s shoulders tapering to a solid waist. Thick necked, a hint of a belly.
“You still fight?” Joe asks, swallowing hard.
“Not much,” Ben answers. “There’s a boxing gym a few blocks away I go to now and then.”
When he motions with his thumb over his shoulder toward the gym, his chest and biceps flex.
It’s going to be a tough night.
6.
Joe doesn’t sleep well, usually. His mind churns through plots and dialogue. Often he drifts off to phantom sounds of typewriter keys striking in the hazy space between waking and sleep.
But this night is different. The unfamiliar bed creaks beneath him. Brick walls still radiate the day’s heat, a muggy blanket that won’t lift. And Ben.
He watches the steady rise and fall of Ben’s chest. Downy brown hair catches the dim light, trailing down his belly. Ben’s right hand rests on his white boxer shorts, just a thin covering over the mound beneath. His lips part slightly with each breath.
If he was trade—like the other guys Joe usually meets—he’d know exactly what to do. Test the waters. Grab. Hope for the best. Sometimes it led to a quick release, sometimes a fist in the face. Joe had good instincts. Mostly.
Sometimes there were fights. Sometimes a guy would call you a queer, and you can’t let that stand or you’ll never shed it. Sometimes the same guy comes sniffing around later for a blow job. “C’mon Joey.” He always gave in.
There’s something about him that makes it easy for the other guys. He’s good looking enough, but with prominent ears and a long nose—not a pretty boy, just regular. Fit, but slim. A body that sparks desire—a hunger to take him from behind, to grasp his chest as they move together like dogs in heat. Afterwards, always the same line: “I don’t remember anything after the beers.” Just guys being guys.
But Ben is different. Harder to read. And he needs the job. Can’t risk that.
Joe smears his palm with spit and reaches into his briefs to take hold of his long dark cock. Jerking quietly is a skill he picked up in the barracks. Most nights it’s the only way he can get relief from the words in his head.
He imagines taking Ben’s thick piece in his mouth. Pushing until his nose is buried in coarse brown curls, the hard length in his throat. He imagines unlocking so much pleasure Ben’s composure melts, his big mitts wrap around Joe’s head, driving into him.
The hushed rhythm of his hand grows louder. Smack. Smack. Smack.
He’s not alone.
Ben’s boxers are pushed down. His own heavy hand working his cock with practiced ease, matching Joe’s rhythm.
Their eyes meet. A moment of recognition.
No words. Just synchronized motion.
Joe leaks precum, making his strokes slicker. He pulls at his balls, to work the full length. Ben does the same, forearm flexing, tongue jutting slightly between full lips.
Ben’s erection is thick and looks powerful—like him.
The sight of him working himself, pleasure rising, pushes Joe over the edge. His chest tenses, guts contract, cock swells. A jet of white arcs across his belly, landing in the dark seam of hair.
Ben follows shortly after, painting his chest and belly in hot streaks of cum. A gasped grunt. Hips thrusting.
It’s all Joe can do not to reach out, to help him.
When they’re done, Ben picks up a discarded t-shirt, wipes himself, and passes it to Joe.
Joe runs the shirt through the inlets of his abs, mixing their loads. He wipes his cockhead with it, wads it, lets it fall.
“I’ll go,” he says softly.
He turns to get up, but Ben’s touch stops him. A knuckle against his arm.
The apartment air is heavier now. The brick walls breathe out the day’s heat. The fan’s lazy rotation just pushes warm air around, thick with sweat and sex.
Still, an arm slides under Joe’s ribs, drawing him close. Chest to back.
“Stay,” Ben murmurs. His breath is hot against Joe’s shoulder.
7.
When Ben wakes, Joe is already up. He’s in the workroom, taking notes while sipping coffee.
“Hope you don’t mind I made myself at home,” Joe says.
“Waking up to coffee?” Ben replies. “I could get used to this.”
“Had to shake off last night’s beer,” Joe adds, waving an invisible hand. “Don’t remember a thing after the bar.”
Ben seems to catch himself, and just raises an eyebrow as he passes by.
“I found bread, but no toaster,” Joe calls out without looking up. “Turned the oven broiler on.”
Ben’s eyes widen and he bolts to the kitchenette, nearly face-planting on the linoleum. He throws open the oven door and frantically pulls out a cigar box. Blowing on it, he realizes the grill didn’t burn his hands. The box isn’t even warm.
“Very funny,” he says to Joe, who can barely contain his laughter.
“I looked,” Joe says. “Funny place to keep valuables.”
Ben opens the box. Inside: a watch, his high school ring, a few documents, and three wads of dollar bills held together by rubber bands. “Yeah, well. I’m usually the only one here and I don’t cook much.”
“You make all that bank on comic books?” Joe asks.
“Mostly.” Ben pours himself a cup of coffee. “That’s my nestegg. If I can figure out how to publish my own comics, I can use it to own what I make. My characters.”
This intrigues Joe. “That’s amazing. What’s stopping you?”
“You might not have noticed but I—” Ben pauses. “I’m not so good at organizing. Drawing’s easy.”
Joe nods. What Ben needs is a partner, he could say. But he doesn’t want that mistaken for an overture. This is just a one-and-done job for him. Just enough to get by. He has his own writing to do, and it’s not comics. He doesn’t want to put ideas in anyone’s head.
Besides, they barely know each other.
“Well, let’s get to work,” Ben says, turning to his drafting table.
With little effort, they fall back into the pattern from the day before—Ben with pencils, Joe studying art and jotting notes.
The radio plays in the background, music occasionally interrupted by a news bulletin: “…this week’s heat wave is historic, with temperatures expected to break all records. City officials warn residents to stay indoors during peak afternoon hours…”
By noon the apartment is a sauna.
Joe’s worn clothes hang limp, and his pants sag low on his slim hips.
When Ben strips off his t-shirt and resumes work, Joe’s eyes roam the expanse of his back—the dip where it meets his rounded rear, the slight arc of his belly.
He’s risked so much for guys not worth half of Ben. But something holds him back.
He’d like to get on his knees and suck Ben off. To take his load, holding that firm ass, groping his chest and belly. But something more, too.
He’d wanted so many boys he couldn’t have, it seemed he was always in a state of longing, he writes in his head. And longing is a cruel teacher, but a poor one. It left him mistaking simple friendship for something else.
It’s just the deadline pressure, Joe tells himself. And the heat. And Ben’s bare back. That’s all.
The radio plays José Feliciano’s Light My Fire before the announcer declares, “It’s gonna be a hot one…”—then Ben slams it off.
But the mercury still rises.
8.
They work around each other, with Ben sometimes revisiting a page Joe thought finished—adding some detail or asking Joe for a revision, to accommodate a new idea he;s added to a later page.
“I thought you were done here,” Joe says. Ben’s squeezed between him and the wall, close enough to brush against.
“It’s done when it’s done,” Ben replies, turning to face Joe. Their noses nearly touch.
Why are you doing this to me? Joe wants to ask, adjusting his underwear around his growing erection.
This isn’t how he’s used to working. Start, stop, revise, repeat. He half wants to scold Ben, half to run his tongue up the sweaty back of his neck.
The most frustrating challenge is the kiss scene. It’s a simple date—a goodnight kiss and a hidden watcher lurking in the shadows. It shouldn’t be this hard. But while Ben’s at ease drawing square-jawed bruisers, he’s less certain with women. And though he knows fights inside out, he’s vexed by the angles of the kiss.
He sketches as Joe hovers, then furiously erases what he’s begun, again and again.
He curses under his breath and looks up with an accusing gaze.
“Do we need the scene?” he asks.
“The kiss? Yeah.” Joe answers. It wasn’t his idea, but it seems important.
“Why?” Ben asks.
Joe replies, “We just do.”
He’s tempted to give in, skip the whole thing. But his writing gears are turning.
“Look,” he says, “The Man from Mars is living a lie even in his most intimate relationships. It adds a creepy factor. Some woman could… marry one of them without even realizing it.” He pauses, not wanting to say the next part out loud. “It shows his desperation. Ben, it matters!”
Ben pushes his sweaty curls back with his palms, nostrils flaring. “Fine. You’ll get the fakakta scene!”
He tries again but pushes so hard on the pencil the tip snaps off.
“SON OF A—” he shouts.
He pulls the sheet off his drafting table as if to crumple it.
“Stop!” Joe gasps, reaching for the sheet, waving like a white flag. Hours of work are on it, and time’s running out.
“Get off!” Ben barks.
They both grab the sheet, trying to wrest it from each other. Then comes the sound, The awful, irreversible sound of paper tearing as the sheet splits, leaving each with half a ruined page.
Oh, fuck.
“Look what you did!” they both shout.
“Do you know how LONG it took to draw that?” Ben rages.
“You were gonna ruin it!” Joe shoots back.
Ben’s red-faced, fists, white-knuckled, like bricks. He looks ready to kill.
“We’ll make it right,” Joe says, though he’s not sure how.
“We have a deadline,” Ben says through gritted teeth. “Or is that something else you ‘don’t remember’ after too many beers?”
Whoa. Where did that come from? “What are you—”
Joe’s crossed a line. He fucked up. It’s not the torn sheet but what happened in bed last night. Shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have spent the night. Shouldn’t have gotten so close.
He shakes his head. “This was a mistake.”
“You’re right about that,” Ben snaps.
Joe is done.
He picks up the shirt folded over the sofa arm and heads for the door. “I quit.”
As he leaves, he hears Ben shout from a window above.
“HEY! For services rendered! Good riddance!”
Ben throws a twenty-dollar bill that, despite the force, flutters gently to the sidewalk at Joe’s feet.
9.
The so-called Den is the city’s worst neighborhood. Like every port city’s rough quarter, desperate immigrants are sequestered with lowlifes and undesirables. It got its name back in ’38, when Mayor Pasquale famously said, “This should have been an Eden for those seeking refuge. But it’s become a den of poverty and vice.”
Joe doesn’t care about the history of Ben’s neighborhood. But he knows it’s the kind of place where you can buy trouble cheap.
He wanders until he spots a solid dark brick building. It looks like a former warehouse. A sign hangs by the door: The Triple Hit Boxing Gymnasium.
The edifice is square and steadfast as a boxer’s jaw— No. Resolute. Square and resolute as a boxer’s jaw.
He’d imagined finding a bar—the kind where guys kill time over a mid-day drink, loosening inhibitions, open to bending rules. But this might do as well or better for some rough trade.
The Den’s boxing gym is cavernous, more humid than outside despite industrial skylights and slow ceiling fans. It reeks of years of fighting—sweat, leather, spent adrenaline.
The guy at the counter says it’s a dime to train if you’re not a member. Joe almost laughs. He’s paid more than that for a little trouble before, and with his mood today, he’d hand over the twenty for some relief.
Joe strips down to a ribbed tank top, the dog tags catching what little light filters through the dirty skylights. They’re props now—like his military cut. A soldier’s costume. Bait.
The gym’s tinny speakers crackle. Barbara Lynn’s You’ll Lose a Good Thing plays—a melancholy soundtrack to his performance.
He moves like a panther between the punching bags—feet light and precise, weaving and throwing quick jabs, each strike measured and controlled.
Sweat streams down his sides; the tank clings, outlining lean muscle. His dress pants hang low below his shirt, revealing the flat of his lower belly, the crevices of his Apollo’s belt.
He knows how to send signals—both challenge and an invitation, a silent code that dares the right kind of response.
He thinks of the barracks, once word spread. Rough hands, hushed demands. “C’mon Joey. Suck my dick.” And every time, he did. Sometimes with another guy taking him from behind. One was almost tender, the way he tugged Joe’s ear to guide his hungry mouth onto his cock.
A young blond approaches. Better looking than Joe expected here. Tawny-skinned like a lion, with compact muscles and golden hair. A chiseled jaw and full bottom lip—like two cherries. Like that movie star Guy Madison, if he’d ever had a dangerous bone in his body.
Use me, Joe thinks. Bend me over. Fuck me. Let them all take turns. I don’t care how, just drive this all out of my head.
“You look like you know what you’re doing,” the blond says, eyeing the dog tags between Joe’s sweaty pecs. He jerks his head toward the empty sparring rings. “Wanna go a round? Gloves off?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Joe says, flashing that sideways smile he knows works. He glances over his shoulder to the bathroom. “Just gotta take a leak.”
The locker room is a landscape of steam and tile, the urinal trough a cool metal promise. Joe’s cock is half-hard, anticipation coiling tight in his gut.
The blond takes his place next to him at the trough, shoulders almost touching.
Joe glances over his shoulder. They’re alone.
He reaches out for the blond’s cock.
He doesn’t see the fist until it connects with his face.
10.
The door to Ben’s apartment is ajar again when Joe reaches it, just like the first morning he was there. He knocks gently and lets himself in.
Ben’s at his drafting table, tapping his pencil percussively.
“Hey,” Joe says.
Ben turns, jaw dropping. “Oy gevalt,” he gasps. “What happened to you?”
Joe raises a hand to the tender bruise spreading around his eye. “Took a fall,” he says. “I’m a klutz. It’s nothing.”
“Fell into a fist, looks like,” Ben says, inspecting the shiner. “Hope you got some licks in yourself.”
“I did okay,” Joe answers.
The locker room scene flashes in his mind—covering his face and guts. But the blond was strong and fast, and Joe was caught off guard. He remembers taking kicks to the belly and head while curled on the floor. In the end, it was his dog tags that saved him. He held them up in a trembling hand. “I’m a soldier.” That’s when the blond relented. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Ben doesn’t need to know any of that.
“Sorry about the page,” Joe says to Ben’s back as the artist pulls off his t-shirt.
Ben heads to the freezer, dumps ice cubes into the shirt, twists it tight, and turns back. “Eh, shit happens, right? I pulled an all-nighter. I’m pretty caught up.”
He presses the makeshift ice bag to Joe’s face.
“Ow, ow, ow.” Joe winces. His cheekbone smarts most.
“Y’ll take what’s good for ya,” Ben scolds, but his touch is gentle.
Joe’s been icing it himself, but it’s nicer when Ben does it.
“I did some work too,” Joe says, gesturing to two sheafs of typing paper clipped together. The top one reads, The Man from Mars.
“I finished all the scripting. Or best I could from memory.
Ben hands off the ice bag so he can flip through the pages. “This is the dialogue and everything. Amazing.”
He turns to the sheaf second and reads the cover: Labyrinth.
“What’s Labyrinth?’”
“It’s for your Olympian. An origin story. Just a… treatment. Maybe it’ll help when you get to it.”
“You did all that yesterday?” Ben asks.
Joe nods. He writes all the time. On paper is easier than working and reworking storylines in his head.
“It’s all your ideas. I just did a little… clean up. Thought I ought to give them back.”
“Thanks,” Ben replies.
“Anything I can do to help with the deadline?” Joe asks. “I’m not much of an artist, but—”
“Yeah,” Ben cuts in. “Actually, you’re just in time. I need a model.”
He grins, and Joe wonders what he’s gotten into.
At Ben’s instruction, they stand between the mirror and drafting table. He sets his radio nearby on a stool, Aretha Franklin singing Dr. Feelgood.
“To set the mood,” Ben chuckles, placing them face to face so he can see their positions in the mirror.
“So, I’m the girl?” Joe asks skeptically.
“Nah, you’re too tall,” Ben scoffs, pulling Joe’s hand to rest on his waist. “You’re the Man from Mars.”
Joe sighs at their nearness.
“Now I put my arms through yours,” Ben says, bringing them close so their crotches meet. They both look in the mirror. “Not bad.”
“And what do I do?” Joe asks. His underwear twists and his heart races.
“I figure a good-looking guy like you has done this plenty,” Ben chuckles.
“You’d be surprised,” Joe replies, the bruise around his eye twitching when he smiles.
“I gotta do everything here?” Ben asks, smiling. “You just turn your noggin… no, like this.”
He turns Joe’s head, gently nuzzling his ears.
“I…,” Joe whispers, tongue darting over dry lips. “I…”
Their faces are so near, he can feel Ben’s breath.
They turn their heads together and their lips meet.
11.
They’re on the floor before they know it, tongues wrestling and teeth glancing. The air is thick with sweat and their scents as hands tear at each other’s clothes, sending Ben’s radio clattering from the stool. Aretha Franklin cuts out mid-note.
Ben’s strong, but Joe is wiry. He manages to get Ben on his back, straddling his waist. He suspects if the artist wasn’t willing, it’d be another story. But Ben is eager, running his hands up Joe’s torso, peeling his tank top off.
He pushes under the dog tags, into the dark hair at the center of Joe’s chest, then down his abs, grazing gently over blooming bruises.
“Must’ve been some fall,” Ben murmurs huskily.
“You shoulda seen the other guy,” Joe smirks.
“I don’t want to think of you with some other guy right now,” Ben says in a hush.
Belts are pulled back and undone. Hips wriggle as they yank their pants and underwear down, freeing their erections.
“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to get you like this,” Joe murmurs, wrapping his hands around their cocks to hold them together.
Ben’s is girthier; Joe’s longer and straighter. A good match. Both circumcised. Sign of the Covenant. He smiles.
He drops down on Ben to kiss him again, grinding against the artist’s solid chest and sides. Ben’s mitts grab at his hips and rear, clutching and caressing. Fuck, his arms are long.
Their cocks rub together; Joe streams precum, slicking them up. Even before it can dry, Ben gushes his. Their erections grinding into it is such a turn-on they surge more.
Sliding his cock against Ben’s soft, furry belly feels good, but kissing is better. Better still when Ben’s hands pry apart his ass cheeks, feeling for the soft pucker. He moans his approval; Ben’s thick fingers pry, pushing gently inside.
“Oh fuck,” Joe gasps, grinding harder into Ben, then pulling back onto Ben’s fingers, coaxing and opening him. “You’re gonna make me cum.”
“Not yet,” Ben whispers, breath hot against Joe’s ear.
He flips them over easily, cushioning Joe’s landing with his arm, then rolling on top.
Straddling Joe’s hips, he leans forward, pinning Joe’s wrists to the floor.
“You’ve been making me crazy since you walked in,” Ben rasps, face to face, their noses grazing, his sturdy legs on Joe’s, holding him down.
Their lips meet again. Ben grinds long and hard, kissing aggressively. His cock glides down Joe’s abs, the black seam of hair slick with their sweat and precum.
“That hurt?” he asks, wary of the bruised sides.
“Only when I laugh,” Joe jokes, grabbing Ben’s meaty rear to pull him closer.
“Wiseguy,” Ben hisses in his ear.
He drives his cock up and down Joe’s flat belly faster, humping like a bull. Sweating, gasping, his back arches. “Fuck yeah,” he grunts between wet, smacking kisses.
He picks up speed; sweat drips from brows and nose. Then, all at once, he pushes hard. His cock shoots jets of cum that arc and fall on Joe’s belly and chest, streaking down as Ben thrusts to draw out the rest.
“Fuck,” Joe whispers, cock begging for release to match Ben’s.
As Ben shifts, Joe’s hand grips the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
“I ain’t going nowhere,” Ben whispers, lowering to kiss Joe’s mouth, tongues catching.
Joe thrusts into the humid space where their bellies meet, cock gliding, slick with sweat and Ben’s cum. His breath catches with each drive of his hips. Stiffening, he shoots his load as they kiss hard, muffling gasps and groans.
“There you go, buddy,” Ben says softly between kisses as Joe shudders and the last of his cum surges out.
Ben rolls off him. They lie on the floor, staring at the ceiling—white as a blank canvas. Ben’s hand finds Joe’s, fingers lacing.
With time, words tumble out, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Then exhaustion pulls them into the twilight between wakefulness and dream.
The only sounds left are their drowsy breaths and sheets of paper whispering against the walls, stirred by the fan’s lazy rotation.
12.
It’s late Friday afternoon when they drop off the art for The Man from Mars. The sheets are rolled snugly in a cardboard tube, and Joe’s script is tucked in a manila envelope.
They run like kids with a treasure map to the nearest bank, eager to cash Ben’s check before weekend lockdown.
He counts out nearly half the amount, handing it to Joe. “Some walking-around money,” he jokes. “Less the twenty I fronted you.”
“Fair enough,” Joe replies, the money warm in his hand. “The rest going to your nestegg?”
Ben nods. “You wanna grab a beer? Celebrate? I like to celebrate hitting a deadline.”
It takes longer to walk back to Hank’s Bar, but it feels right, and neither minds stretching out the time together.
It’s dusk when they arrive. Ben takes a booth for two—a deuce, he calls it—and orders beers.
As they tap mugs in a toast, Ben says, “Shabbat Shalom.”
Joe smiles. “Good Shabbos.”
“You’re a good writer,” Ben says. “Pleasure working with you. Mostly. Maybe we can—”
Joe’s face says no. This isn’t what he wants. He’s got stories to tell. His own words to type into his own books—no drawings or thought balloons. No cosmic medallions or Martians. And him and Ben? These things can’t last.
Ben wraps his hands around his beer and nods. “Well. Maybe in another life.”
When Joe’s done, he thanks Ben. “For… everything.”
He steps out of the cool dark of Hank’s, into the fading light and hot, damp blanket of summer air.
The storyline comes to him as he walks away:
While the summer of ’68 swelters like a blast furnace, an ex-soldier with regrets finds a slim shot at a fresh start. He’s paired with an ex-boxer who traded his gloves for a pencil but never lost his punch, sketching masterpieces in a cramped apartment between overdue notices. Together they need to create a comic book in just five days. But as the deadline weighs and the city melts around them, the real story isn’t on the pages, but what’s unfolding between them.
It’s just the ending that eludes him.
It takes five slow loops around the block before Joe returns to Hank’s. What good is a story with no Martians anyway?
His chest tightens when he sees their booth is empty, but he spots Ben at the bar, seated solo.
He’d know that back anywhere now—the broad shoulders and thick neck. The crown of close-cropped curls.
Joe takes the stool next to Ben’s. “Hey.”
“Did you know I’m… crazy about you?”
Ben smiles. He’s not good with words. More of an action guy.
“So, Max Golem,” Joe says. “Is he made of clay? Or are we talking more of a robot situation? I have some ideas that’ll knock your socks off.”
Ben’s grin widens as he shouts for two more beers. This might take a while.
END
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