A Gay Cowboy’s After-Hours Guide to the Metropolitan Museum
A tale of art, allure, touch, and infatuation
Jimmy,” he growled sexily. “Touch it.”
My eyes traced the ethereal shaft of Delft light filtering through the open window, rendering the skin luminous as if glowing from within. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I wiped my palms on my trousers and extended an arm. A flush of heat surged through me, moisture gathering under my arms and beading on my upper lip.
I hesitantly touched the skin with a single finger and instantly pulled back as if jolted by electricity. My breath snagged in my throat, and a rush of blood to my head left me dizzy and gasping, momentarily frozen in disoriented breathlessness.
By day, I was a web designer at Forbes magazine. By night, I volunteered backstage at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to help Hank — the current object of my daddy obsession — sew Native American dance costumes. Each evening, I walked through a door marked “employees only” into the backstage of the Met, passing sculptures and wooden-crated artworks on my way to a workroom set up with a cutting table and sewing machine.
I pressed the pedal to the floor, attentively guiding the final ribbon under the swiftly moving needle. My eyes felt strained, my fingers weary after a…
