We were both texting in his white-on-white living space. Me to a few friends, him to his girlfriend. Or, at least, I suppose it was his girlfriend. Every time I was there, I never asked and played cool. I pretended not to care, but in truth, I was just loitering, texting menial stuff to random people, writing words knowing I'd delete them immediately afterwards.
On Wednesday, the day of the accident, or the miracle (it depends where you stand), he stood up and sat on the leather sofa asking: 'Ready?' I even replied 'One more sec,' just so he could grow a little impatient, just so I could hear him commenting 'you're such a busy boy.' I gave him a nudge, in the same way I saw some people from the crew behaving towards him, while keeping my eyes on the nonexistent text. He dropped the phone on the sofa, kicked the laptop close, plucked a few grapes. I picked up a beer instead. 'What should we be doing?' I asked.
That morning had been busy and we were both chilling. I styled Greg for a photo shoot. That's what I do, I dress male models as girls dress dolls. Most models don't really get fashion: they show up wearing the same boring clothes you get from Kmart, those slouchy sweater and faded jeans you wouldn't give a fiver for. But they don't need to care. Their gorgeousness compensates for any lack of structure or order or glamor you can expect clothes to provide for you. I could have wrapped Greg in toilet paper or put two slices of hams over his nipples and no one would have noticed. Because it's not the clothes that people are looking for. It's the square jaw, the eyes the color of the sky in august, the nose of a Greek sculpture, those muscles bulging from the shoulders that people are looking for. The clothes provide the frame, the icing, the décor. And so did the black denim jacket and the jeans I prepared for him, as well the baseball cap and the necklace he was still wearing. 'Can I keep them?' he asked. I nodded.
It was obvious I fancied him. He may not have noticed, because for someone that gorgeous it's probably normal to have people around him staring all the time. Models are vain and self-pleased, but not necessarily aware of what's really going on in the heads of people that have been less fortunate. Plus, my job required staring: observing every inch of his body to make sure that he looked perfect.
The problem was that it was difficult to separate my duties from my desire. My job may have required to be observant and vigilant, but my desire made me controlling. I shouted at the make up girl because she got a smile from him after she fixed his hair. That was not cool, I know, but I couldn't help it.
So, on that Wednesday, we were both there in his white-on-white living space, six hours before he had to leave for the airport. He invited me over, as he usually did after our weekly photo shoot. He was a nice guy, or I think he was, as he hardly spoke and I knew nothing about his life or his plans for the future. I usually stayed there as long as the silence was most unbearable than the obvious capitulation of my desires. So 'what should we be doing?' I asked.
'I dunno,' he said. 'What would you like to do the most?' I asked. 'I dunno' he repeated, staring at the blank wall. 'What is the thing you'd like the most?' he asked back. And then I don't know where it came from, whether from sincerity or from love for thrills or from utter discomfort, but I uttered 'I'd like to be you.'
Nothing happened for at least four hours. Or so it felt while I was waiting for a reaction. He turned and smiled back. 'Thanks Hu. That's a very nice thing to say.' And he took his cap and put it on my head. It felt weird, as if he were the father and I the clumsy son, but also gentle, as the straight guy that lovingly tells his gay friend that there's no way they could ever date. And it was then, when I was still dealing with a mixture of feelings of filial respect and rejections, that he suggested to take a picture together to commemorate our friendship. That was a weird way to negate what I had just said but fair enough. In a few second I was there, next to Greg, wearing his cap and wishing all the more that I could be him.
And it happened. While the flash of the camera blinded us for a second, I switched place with him, I somewhat entered his body. I didn't feel my spine grow or my legs stretch. I just felt a rush of blood to my head, a cold chain around my head and my penis grow bigger. I turned towards Hu, that is me. He looked fine, just mildly bewildered. Didn't he get it? 'Hu are you OK?'
It was stupid of me to even call him that way. I was Hu, not him. Even in Greg's body I knew what had happened. And yet, I could feel the thought fading as a wound heals and new bits of information falling into place as I scanned the world around me. The tattoo I got in Copenhagen while skipping school, the straw chair I bought from a farm in Oklahoma during a shooting for Vogue, the photographs of Egyptian landscapes at the walls. Everything felt familiar, yet fresh.
'I'm OK, I think' Hu uttered, but I had already left for my bedroom, where I lifted my tee to see the amazing tattoo that made my career, an eagle that spread its winds over my chiselled chest.
'Where are you Greg?' Hu asked, but I was already packing, ready to fly.
