*****

I'll never forget the night I met him. I was at one of Max Kauffman's parties on the upper west side. Max was of the newly rich – in his case, a lottery ticket was to blame. Living the New York art scene has taught me that there is a hierarchy of wealth. At the top sit those of Old Money – they look down on everyone else. In the middle are the newly rich who worked their asses off to achieve their wealth, and those are (at least) respected to a degree, though not generally considered posh. And finally, at the very bottom, are the newly rich who didn't do a damn thing to get their cash, and these tend to be disrespected by all.

I'd known Max for a few years, and now that the first blush of possessing millions was fading, he was shooting for a little class. That's why he invites me to all of his soirees. Having a gifted, half starving, pseudo-bohemian artist around reflected well on him. My presence told people that he had style, charity, and (above all) taste. He didn't think I knew I was being used for this express purpose, but believe me, I knew.

Did I mind being the token artist? Nah. Max threw great parties. They were like frat parties, but with insanely expensive liquor.

And my taste in clothes allowed me to play the part of artist to perfection. Tonight I was decked out in black– loose, black slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. An onyx stud in my left ear was the only accessory. I had decided to forgo wearing my favorite shades, deciding that given my attire I would look entirely too french café.

I also had a hint of black stubble on my face. It looked like five o'clock shadow, but truthfully I hadn't shaved in over a week. It wasn't a conscious attempt to look masculine, though. It's just that when I get into a real painting jag I tend to forget little details like that. Needless to say, the facial hair added to my mystique.

After Max greeted me with his booming voice and full body embrace, he looped a pudgy arm around my narrow shoulders and introduced me to his more important guests. Most of them I'd met before, but like I said, I was there for an express purpose. I was my normal Frank Sinatra wannabe self. Cool, aloof, an air of mystery. It was a persona I'd worked years to develop. God, I would have killed to be a part of the Rat Pack. Born too late.

Finally, when I was left to my own devices, I had a chance to survey the crowd. Max adored beautiful people– both male and female– and it showed. The women were a textbook study of curves– hips, breasts, thighs and calves. All the men were tall, broad shouldered, and various stages of buff. It was like a god damned Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. I could already tell that I was going to be bored out of my skull... at least until everyone got good and drunk.

I guess I should have been intimated by all of this uninspired beauty. After all, I'm slender and short. 115 pounds and five foot one, if you can believe it. When I was younger I tried to pack on some muscle, but quickly realized that it wasn't going to happen. So now I have some feather weights around to make sure I don't atrophy, and I run for endurance. A long time ago I discovered I rather like my body the way it is, and I stopped caring what other people thought of me. Ironically, as soon as I had this epiphany, my sex appeal shot up by at least two points (which doesn't sound like much, but I'm using a scale of ten) and since then I've never been lonely for a lover. Which is a very, very good thing, because I am a sex fiend. My libido hit hyperdrive as soon as puberty descended upon me, and at 24 it only seemed to be spiraling higher. Burn out is probably inevitable, but I was enjoying the ride while I could.

I snagged a blue drink from a passing waiter and took a sip to verify it was straight Blue Curacao. Sickeningly sweet, I know. Truthfully I think I liked the color more than the taste. But it was my current liquor of choice, and Max always made sure he had some on hand for me.

As I looked around again, I realized with disappointment that I probably wouldn't be getting laid tonight. Not because the beautiful people present wouldn't want to have sex with me. There were always men who wanted to fuck an honest to goodness artist, and there were always men who wanted to play out their power fantasies by fucking little guys. And my sexual prowess, as well as my equipment, was fast approaching legendary status.

No. I wouldn't be getting laid tonight because not one of these cardboard cutouts appealed to me.

Maybe if I drank enough I'd be able to get past this hangup when the party really started to swing. But experience told me that I'd be throwing up long before I could get to that point.

A shame. Right now I was flying high on life. I'd just sold a painting for a ridiculously high price, and I used the money to rent the loft I'd always dreamed of living in. Sure, the chances of me being evicted in under six months were staggeringly high, but at this moment in time I was raring to celebrate.

I was detached and lost in my own thoughts when I felt eyes on me. Not the usual cursory glance, or intrigued perusal, either. This was intense, wanting, needing.

I turned my head and saw him, sitting on the floor against the wall farthest from me. As soon as he caught me looking, he turned away, his face flaming.

A bonafide wallflower. Well that was new.

Max's guests weren't exactly known for their shyness.

And yet this one oozed it from every pore of a body that might well have been even smaller than mine. He sat alone, and it was no wonder. Although he was dressed smartly in a pair of khakis and blue button down shirt, he somehow managed to blend almost perfectly with the shadows.

Even though I was projecting my obvious interest, he still hadn't worked up the courage to meet my gaze again, so I used the moment to take in his profile. The shadows made him appear a little gaunt, but his face was made up of clean lines and angular planes. Not handsome by any conventional standard. But it was a face with character, a face with a story, a face that stirred me.

I downed the rest of my Blue Curacao and placed it on another passing tray. I didn't play at being coy or any of that bullshit, choosing instead to walk straight to him. When I was almost on top of him and he still couldn't face me, I let loose a little sigh and let my back fall against the wall, sliding down to the floor and resting my wrist on one of my upraised knees, leaving the other leg fully extended and not caring one whit if someone tripped over me. All in one smooth, fluid movement.

Oh yeah. I was sexy.

"So you were checking me out a little while ago," I said without preamble.

His face turned red again as he kept his gaze focused straight ahead. The blush flooded his skin and slid into the collar of his shirt. "Y-Yeah. I guess I was."

Honest, even when mortified. He most likely didn't know it yet, but he didn't have patience for coy bullshit, either. Definite bonus. "I was checking you out, too."

He whipped his head around to look at me. I was almost afraid he'd done himself injury. "Really?"

I grinned. "Why else would I be here?"

"To tell me not to look?"

I laughed. For the first time in a really long while. "You can look all you want. My name's Avery."

A faint smile touched his mouth and his intelligent eyes suddenly sparkled with humor. "Isn't Avery a girl's name?"

Oh, this one had potential. "It was my mother's favorite name of all time. My dad went along with it because it means 'bear.' Obviously, I did not grow into it." His smile became less timid. "What's your name?"

"Michael."

"Oh, like that's so much better. You're a french accent away from being called Michelle."

This time he laughed. "Michael was a warrior angel. One of the highest of the high. He could kick your bear's ass."

His voice, although pitched in the upper octaves, wasn't unmasculine. That, combined with his humor, was starting to make me hot. "How do you know Max?" I asked, deciding to keep it cool for just a little more.

He looked out into the room, his brown eyes searching out the host of the party. "He's my cousin. I moved to the city a couple of months ago, and my mom got his mom to promise he'd help me adjust."

Say what you will about Max, he had a big heart. "Where are you from?"

"Iowa."

I stifled the urge to burst into fresh laughter. It seemed that I had a farm boy on my hands. Although he didn't look like he worked on a farm. On closer inspection, I could tell he was thinner than I was by at least ten pounds. Not at all like those corn fed boys I'd heard about.

I studied his profile again, the thoughtful introspection, the hint of uneasiness that didn't entirely pertain to me. Suddenly I was glad that Max was taking care of him. This city could eat you alive. Hell, I was from Jersey and I nearly died here. Several times. "Where do you work?"

He shifted his body so he could give me his full attention. I must admit, being the sole focus of those chocolate brown eyes sent a little thrill through me. "Benderson and Myers. I have a law degree and I passed the bar and everything. But mostly I just do research for the firm."

He couldn't fool me. "And that's just the way you like it, isn't it?"

A nod and a grin was my reward for my insight.

The lights dimmed several degrees and the volume of the music rose, slow and sultry.

Michael looked out into the room, first with surprise, then with a pitiful sort of longing when he saw couples pairing off.

I leaned closer. "Want to dance?"

One of his hands gripped the other as he stared down at them. "I-I don't dance."

Ahhh. Now I understood. "How long have you been out, Michael?"

His grip grew tighter. "Four and a half months."

"Have you ever been kissed by a man?"

His head shot up again. I swear, it was a miracle he didn't need a permanent neck brace. "Y-Yes," he said defensively.

I leaned closer. "Ever been fucked by one?"

His skin went pale, then red, but he nevertheless answered me. I suspected he would always answer me. "A f-few times."

But it hadn't been pleasant, that much I could tell from his expression. I rose to my feet with well practiced grace. "Come on," I said, holding out my hand. "Let's dance."

There was a moment's hesitation before he let me pull him to his feet. He was an inch shorter than me, which was surprising, since I'd never known an adult man shorter than me. A disturbing thought occurred. "How old are you?" God, what if he was some sort of child prodigy?

"Twenty three."

My body let go of the tension it had been holding as I pulled away from the wall. Far enough to give us some room, but making sure to keep in the shadows because I wanted him to be comfortable. "That's only a year younger than me." I drew him against my body and moved to the music. He stumbled a bit at first, but soon settled into me. This was my first chance to feel him up a bit, so I took full advantage. My roaming hands traced the outline of his ribcage. Every rib stood out in sharp relief, and I wondered how it could possibly be healthy to be so thin. Then he pressed himself a little closer and I inhaled his scent.

Looking back, that was probably the moment I really fell for him.

It's hard to describe what he smelled like. Something fresh and earthy at the same time. Shades of gold swirled in my mind's eye, rippled and flowed like a field of wheat. Maybe he really did come from a farm. Didn't know. Didn't care.

Almost unconsciously, I licked his ear, wanting to get a taste of him.

His head snapped back and his eyes were just about perfect saucers as he stared at me.

The cords in his neck must be made of steel. By my count, he should have gotten whiplash three times already. I ran my fingers over his face, tracing his features, calming him enough to quell his anxiety and bring his eyes back to a normal size. A smile ghosted on my lips before I dipped my head ever so slightly to cover his mouth with mine.

He returned the kiss, tentatively at first, then with increasing eagerness. What he lacked in style, he certainly made up for in enthusiasm.

My hand slid over his ribs and down to cup his crotch.

This time his entire body jerked away from me. "Avery... all these people..."

Oh boy. This could not be good. "Have you ever actually been to one of Max's parties before?"

He shook his head. "Not since his 9^th birthday."

Already half the guests had stripped their shirts. Michael's attention was totally– and a little unnervingly– focused on me, so he hadn't yet noticed that fact. He didn't know that in less than an hour, this room was going to become nothing more than a writhing mass of arms and legs.

A wave of protectiveness washed over me. I stood there as seconds ticked by, stunned by the alien feeling.

His expression was both embarrassed and worried. "Avery?"

Okay, okay. I realize he wasn't a virgin. But he still gave off that vibe, you know? And I didn't want to expose him to this level of kink just yet. I grabbed his hand and headed for the door. "Let's get out of here."

He tried to slow us down, which is when I discovered I was quite a bit stronger than him. Another first for me. "You want to leave the party? It's still early, isn't it?"

I paused and pulled him against my body. "I know a cozy little place where we can get to know each other while drinking ridiculously overpriced coffee. Doesn't that sound better?" I suppose I could have just told him the truth about what was going to happen here, but then he would have known that I was a kinky sonovabitch, and I wasn't sure whether that would be a deal breaker.

His entire being seemed to warm to the idea, and once again I was flooded with images of swirling gold. "Okay. Just let me tell Max."

I glanced around and spotted our esteemed host necking with a woman and a man he may or may not have known. "Trust me, he's not even going to notice we're gone. You can call him tomorrow morning to tell him what a great time you had."

He grinned. "What makes you think I had a great time?"

"You met me, didn't you?"

Michael laughed and stopped resisting.

We didn't have sex that night, which was exceedingly strange for me. Instead, we spent the night– get this– talking. I actually did take him to that coffee shop. He asked for a decaf mocha and I ordered a double espresso.

"Isn't it a little late for that?"

I grinned and knocked it back, then ordered another one. "I only sleep three or four hours a night, so it's really not an issue for me."

"What keeps you up?"

"Lots of things," I said. "Art, mostly." Sometimes nightmares, I thought silently. I almost told him that, too, despite the fact I didn't know him from Adam and I'd never told anyone. "I paint, and it tends to consume me." Even this was much more than I shared, and I looked into those brown eyes. What was it about him that had me feeling so intimate? And was this something I wanted?

"Sounds intense."

I shrugged. "Sex takes the edge off it."

He reddened and I moved on to safer subjects. I don't remember what we talked about. But for the first time in my life I felt connected to someone, and even though the experience scared the shit out of me, I didn't want to let it go. The sun rose and we parted ways, but we would see each other after Michael had gotten some sleep. He told me he needed at least eight hours to function at all.

I couldn't even comprehend sleeping that much.

We didn't have sex the next night, either. Or the night after that. In fact, we didn't have sex for an entire, utterly excruciating month. And what surprised me was that I didn't go seeking relief on the sly, which would have been the normal path for me. I just couldn't do it. I felt as if... as if I'd be cheating on him, even though we'd never once talked about monogamy. But I didn't want to be with anyone else. I liked talking and laughing with him. I liked holding his hand. I liked kissing him.

Still, I had my limits. And thirty days was my breaking point.

We'd just arrived in my loft, which consisted of several canvasses, an easel, some boxes, and a king sized bed.

Michael glanced around. "Ever plan on unpacking?"

I dragged him against my body. "I suppose. Eventually."

He kissed me with his usual zeal. By now my pent up sexual energy was just about ready to explode, so I wasted no time reaching for his pants.

As was his routine, he pulled away from my touch.

Groaning, I fell back onto my bed and propped myself up on my elbows. "Are we just friends or what?"

He shifted from one foot to the other, fingering the open catch to his slacks. "N-No. I mean, I want to be more than that. I... I think I'm in love with you."

I straightened, unsure whether to be touched or just plain confused. "You think you love me, but you don't want to fuck me?"

His face blanched. Even after a month, he still wasn't used to my swearing. "I should probably come clean with you."

"Please do."

His gaze was everywhere but at my eyes. "The first time I saw you wasn't at Max's party."

I cocked an eyebrow. It appeared that Michael had a little mystery to him. "Go on."

"I was at an art show two months ago. One of your paintings was on the wall. I couldn't stop staring at it. All those bold colors cloaked in darkness... pure, wicked passion thrown onto the canvas. It was the most enthralling thing I'd ever seen."

"Please, stop," I said, grinning as I feigned modesty.

Heat crept into his cheeks. It was always pitifully easy to make him blush. "It was my first big New York art show. Max had taken me– I guess he felt I needed some culture. He pointed you out, told me all about you."

I didn't have to wonder what he'd been told. Max only bothered with one type of gossip. "So you know that I'm a very promiscuous man with a cock to match."

He swallowed. Hard. "Yeah."

Finally I rose to my feet. "What's scaring you more? That I've fucked a lot of guys, or that my ten inches might hurt you?"

Something flickered in his eyes, but he hid it too quickly for me to understand what it was. "N-Neither. Those stories were the whole reason I was at the party that night. I wanted to get a closer look at you, to watch you move, interact with people. I didn't think I'd actually have a chance to speak with you."

I frowned, confused once again. "The more you talk, the less clear your reasons for not sleeping with me become. You realize that, right?"

He turned away and started to pace. The words tumbled from his mouth as he continued to avoid my gaze. "I-I'm scared to be naked in front of you. My body... it never went through puberty, Avery."

Of all the things he could have said, that had never crossed my mind. "I don't understand. You said you were twenty three."

"I am twenty three. I think and feel like a man. But my body never caught up. The doctors pumped me full of all kinds of hormones and chemicals to jump start my body, but nothing worked. The only hair I have is on my head. And... and..." His hands gripped each other so tightly that his fingers turned white.

I approached him slowly, as if he were a fawn, although what the hell I should know about not spooking a baby deer is beyond me. "And?"

He turned his body toward me, but kept his face downcast.

"Michael?"

His trembling hands moved to his pants and undid the zipper. The slacks slid down his thin legs and as he pushed down his briefs I noticed two crystalline drops fall to the floor.

Holy shit. Was he crying?

"See?"

I looked down at his still shaking hands and saw what he'd been so frightened to show me. His prick was small, boyishly small. Not even four inches. His puberty speech made sense at last, and I began to chuckle.

His head shot up, his eyes full of hurt.

I grabbed a fistful of shirt and yanked him against my body. "Thank god. I thought it was something serious, like a vagina." Then I crushed my mouth to his stunned lips, kissing him long and hard.

When he could come up for air, that stunned expression was still on his face. "You... you don't care?"

I pulled on the collar of my shirt, revealing a little skin. "You've noticed all these scars on my body, right?"

Looking embarrassed, he nodded. I guess I couldn't blame him. I looked like a fucking roadmap from the neck down. He was too nice a guy to point that out, and so we'd never talked about it.

"And you still think I'm hot?"

His hand caressed a particularly nasty twist of skin just below my collarbone. "I've never known anyone so sexy."

"So why couldn't you trust me to think that you're sexy?"

He simply stared for several seconds, and I found myself wondering if this was how he'd looked at my painting. Then a grin crept over his mouth, and he undressed me with the same enthusiasm he did everything else.

Our first sexual experience was strictly vanilla. Pleasant enough, but nothing to write home about. It would take another week for me to find his switch. And what a switch it was.

Turned out Michael Doherty liked it rough.

At first I balked at the idea. I'd never had the slightest inclination toward a power fantasy. But when Michael is hot, he turns into a fucking animal in bed. Me, being the hedonist I am, worked very hard to bring out that beast as often as possible.

Three weeks later he moved in with me. It was odd waking up to the same person every morning. Having them underfoot all the goddam time. Especially someone who was always so unshakably chipper, even before his morning cup of coffee.

But late at night, when I sat up and watched him sleep, I had to admit that I loved him too.

If I had known what would happen five years later, I would have run away screaming until my lungs burst.

I'm glad I didn't know.