The room is empty except for one man.
He stands in front of a ceiling to floor-length mirror, legs spread slightly apart, arms at his sides in black-gloved fists. His head is bowed, covered in a black hooded scarf, and below that shoulder-length dark hair curtains his face. He’s unnaturally tall and powerfully built, arms bulging with muscles that are apparent through the strange ribbed half-shirt and harness he wears, and his leather-clad legs are elongated thanks to an outrageous pair of heeled knee-high boots with thick soles and buckles. Yet the most striking thing about the man isn’t what he’s wearing or even his body, but rather what’s happened to his body. A thick chrome rod impales him through the center of his torso, just above the ripple of muscle, and anchors him to the mirror.
Suddenly, light erupts from a crack in the mirror, a neon red-orange light that ignites the rod with a low, menacing hum. The hum rises as fluorescent lights around the edges of the room flicker to life.
The man lifts his head. His face is strange, distorted into something between man and machine. His mouth is large, lips full and rosy above a sharp chin, but above that his face is obscured by some sort of a mask. Is it a mask? The chrome grille appears embedded into his skin, matte black metal blending sharply around his eyes, which are wide and brown and hold a sorrow that appears at odds with the grille’s furrowed brow. His nose, too, appears to be partially covered in the same matte metal, transforming what could have been an attractive nose into something monstrous. With his head raised, it’s apparent he’s wearing a thick leather collar, which, accompanied by the rest of his outfit, give him the effect of a fetish model impaled in some bizarre act of torture.
The room comes alive with the sound of hypnotic synthesized snare drums, and the man begins to move.
It starts with his hips, which sway back and forth on those impossibly long legs. His legs bend at the knees as he grinds down, eyes staring unblinkingly back at the mirror. His shoulders move next, rolling back and forth as he bends his arms, trailing them just above his thighs, gloved fingertips barely brushing over thick muscular thighs. He straightens, pulls his arms in and drags his hands down his chest and across his stomach, and if his eyes appear to linger on the glowing rod lodged firmly in his abdomen it’s a trick of the light.
The beat drives on, low slurred vocals growling out of unseen speakers, and the man pulls his muscle-bound arms out to the sides, sinuously working his upper body to the beat. His arms stretch above his head, hands twirling through figure-eight motions, one arm comes up, another bent wrist frames his face, then switch. His legs bend a bit deeper as he waves his arms over his head. The music’s building now, and the man's movements become more frantic, hips swiveling faster, arms waving from side to side, ass shaking violently, fingers dancing in the air, and if it weren’t for the rod guiding him up and down the mirror, he would surely be stumbling over his heeled feet.
The intro crashes to a climax, and as the man rises to full height with a gentle sway of his hips, his eyes blink and his lips part in a parody of post-orgasmic bliss.
As the music picks up again, rumbling vocals swirling around the room, there comes the sound of distant footsteps. Immediately the man’s eyes focus in the mirror, where, immediately behind him, is a doorway.
Armitage Hux, conceptual art darling, who’d achieved success long before he was older than Jesus, still fucking relevant at 34, stands at the threshold and meets the impaled man’s eyes. He steps toward him, watching as his hips sway from side to side, as his arms move listlessly. It’s as though he recognizes Hux. Before he’s quite aware he’s done it, Hux places an arm on one powerful shoulder, tips back the man’s hood, and stands on tiptoe so he can bury his face in his hair.
It smells like plastic, like silicone and iron, paint thinner and the stale scent of heated wire. At this distance, he can hear the low whir of motors in the man’s joints as he swivels in place, as he tries to bend his head to find Hux’s eyes. He runs a finger through the hair, reaches around and probes the wide, fleshy mouth, knowing that just under the surface lie neat rows of circuits. Male Figure is nothing but a beautifully put together machine.
Oh, he’d had other ideas — an androgynous blond, a blushing twink with a little boy’s face — but when it came time to actually creating Male Figure, Hux looked deep into his heart and pulled from it his most self-indulgent desires. If he was to build an idealized man, even under the pretense of a conceptual art project on masculine posturing as a way to hide his own femme fragility, why not make him everything he never could be? And so Male Figure has the tan skin Hux can never gain, the build of an MMA fighter combined with soulful puppy eyes, the wardrobe of a BDSM dom with the attitude of a sub. He’s a little bit Darth Vader, a little bit Edward Scissorhands, with an armored face and an obscene mouth.
In other words, Hux’s worst wet dream brought to life.
He trails his hand down Male Figure’s back, cups his ass through the leggings. Hux made it generous, gave him buxom pecs and a long cock which now seems overtly apparent even under the leather. Male Figure’s body is meant to be fondled, though he privately hopes none of the critics or reporters realize this, that they write it off as a homage to Neoclassical sculpture, or at worst ascribe him some internalized homophobia.
In the moment, though, Hux grinds up against that ass, takes Male Figure’s hands into his own and slowly, gently positions them over his crotch. With his own hands he dips underneath the waistband, pets at the cock and strokes his heavy testicles. They’re not wired to anything, couldn’t become erect if Hux wanted them to, but he has plans for Male Figure; if not this version of him, then another. He’ll program him to stroke him off just the way he likes it, give Male Figure an oozing cock and let himself get reamed into oblivion. What better gift for himself than a lover who’s everything that was never given to him, a fucktoy who’d never leave? Hux finds himself stiffening at the thought, not now, he tells himself as he adjusts his pants and steps away, pulling his suit jacket down over his pants.
They lock eyes in the mirror, and even though Hux knows it’s all illusion, it’s just cameras embedded in Male Figure’s grille that track whenever someone appears in the mirror, it feels intimate. The music fades, he opens his mouth, and Hux’s voice comes out. “Close your eyes,” he says, as Hux’s eyes shut. The room is quiet, and he can hear the hiss of motors as Male Figure gestures with his hands.
“When you look at yourself, you’re ugly. When you touch yourself, you’re hot. I'm weak, I'm useless, and I don’t believe in god. My mother is dead, my father is dead, I’m gay. I’d like to be a poet. This is my house. Now open your eyes.”
Lady Gaga oozes through the speakers, synths stabbing and drums sputtering as she sings about living for the applause. Male Figure twirls his hips, moves his arms around in a white-boy bastardization of vogueing, his chrome face flashing under the fluorescent lights. The opening reception starts in two hours, and Hux is eager to introduce his boy toy to the art world.