Gay Erotic Stories

Well...now I had two of my questions answered. I definitely wanted to paint (so long as Aaron was my model), and I was definitely into having sex with a guy (so long as it was Aaron Friesen). Dammit. I don't know why I thought answering those two concerns in my life would make things easier for me. Shit, I was even more confused than before. I mean, seriously -- would I be this hyped up over doing a portrait if my model was to be some ninety-year-old man or some radiant mother's pimple-faced brat? Was I aiming to be nothing more than a fag artist who paints pretty nude boys with nice hard erections and smooth skin and perfect hair and way too excellent muscles? What Tom of Finland did was fine for him (hey, I did a few little "illustrated stories" of my own when I was in high school and needed some way to pop off the steam), but their work was so, I dunno...so limited and a bit too laced with prurience for my needs. (That was my word of the month -- prurient.) Hell, anybody can draw a decent looking naked guy with a hard-on. Why would I want to be just like them? And yet...having Aaron sit next to me -- giving me the chance to paint his perfect face and capture his perfect smile and find the exact right shade for his golden hair -- God himself couldn't have told me that I was not meant to do at least this. So you're probably thinking: So why do you still have questions, idiot? You're obviously psyched about this guy and can't wait to show off your ability as an artist. And you had enough confidence to offer to do it...and not because you think it'll get him into bed with you. It's something you'd enjoy doing, so what's the big deal? And the answer is -- I don't know. You see, I've never really felt like this before. In fact, it's usually been the opposite. In my life drawing class, last year, the nude model was this viciously frumpy girl who had rolls of flab cascading down her bones. No, that's unfair. She was just overweight...by about thirty pounds, I think...but I hated drawing her. I didn't mind that she was a girl; I was just irritated that she looked so sloppy. I felt the same way towards the nude guy we had on one or two occasions, who had next to no body fat and sharply defined muscles and was generally in good proportion, but who hid his face behind the scraggly beard and didn't believe in using deodorant. Guess that makes me...oh, picky...or snotty...or something like that...but I have to have a subject I can be proud to have painted, and I've only come close to having one of those. It was a guy named Leon in 9th grade. Leon was a dick, to put it kindly. He pretty much ignored me in the few regular classes we had together, but he had some cruel fun with me in gym (due to the fact that I was not...well, as athletic as the other boys). But he was headed towards being a good-looking guy, in a cowboy kind of way, and I'd still done a couple sketches of him when things were slow in English. Anyway, I was kept late after school one day (detention, actually; I got caught "doodling" during a geology lecture). I'd just called my mom, who said she couldn't get me for half an hour, so I went to some benches by the tennis courts to wait. And that's where I saw Leon sitting on one of those decorative rock formations that landscapers seem to think are so cool. He was scrunched up, arms across his knees, chin resting on his arms, looking mournful. He didn't see me (which was fine so far as I was concerned) so I sat down and started doing homework. But I found myself sneaking glances at him, and not because I was attracted to him. Something about his position and the solitude around him caught my heart, and I pulled out my sketchbook and snapped off a fairly decent rendition of the moment, using a soft pencil and regular typing paper. I found myself praying that he would not move before I got the position down and some of the details...and he did not. Not until a beat-up old station wagon pulled up and he slipped off the rocks and sadly plopped into the back seat. A tired gray woman was behind the wheel (my first thought was that she's his grandmother) and she did not even look at him. They just drove off. I don't think he ever saw me...ever even thought to see me; he was just lost in his own little world of misery and pain (as are all fifteen-year-old boys, myself included at the time). Funny thing is...here he was, one of the guys making my life hell, and suddenly I felt sorry for him. I don't know why. Maybe it's because the old gray woman never even acknowledged him as he got in the car. Maybe it was the way he was sitting on the rock formation. Maybe it was just my own pissy mood. Whatever it was, a couple of days later I made a Xerox of the sketch and slipped it into one of his books during English. Leon was out of school for a couple days after that, then he stopped me, a week later, and showed me the sketch and asked, "You do this?" "No," I said. I was kind of scared of him. "You know who did?" "Nope. Why?" He ignored me, turned to walk away...then stopped. He didn't look at me as he said, "My momma died, couple days ago. Cancer. I...I found it, today, in one of my books, second I opened it for class and...and...and...it's like she...she..." He couldn’t finish; he was too close to tears. All I could say was, "Wow. I'm sorry." He stiffened, glared at me and snarled, "You tell anybody about this, I'll beat the crap out of you...and...and I don't give a damn about your brothers! You got me?" I nodded. He stormed off. Never spoke to me again. Not even to make fun of me in gym. I still have that sketch. And it's not perfect (perspective's off, his head's too small for his body, the feet look awkward) but my critique of it is gentle (not like how I can get with my work today) and I can see a little quality in it. I think I was hoping I'd find that again with Aaron. So...Saturday finally came (how, I don't know) and inch by inch the clock neared 6pm. I had everything ready -- a comfy chair I'd "borrowed" from the refectory for him to sit in, a pair of lamps flanking the chair to give me decent light, Cokes and beer in my dinky little fridge, chips and dip...and some "Zero Seven" on the stereo. The easel was positioned just right, a two-by-four pre-framed canvas resting on it, all treated and ready for oils to be applied. I had a pad of sketch paper for some studies and my Derwent pencils were sharpened (I like using #4b) and I had a fresh stick of charcoal to outline his position on the canvas. I'd taken a shower at 4pm and dressed very carefully in too-cool-artist-casual-chic: clean tee-shirt with a slightly frayed collar and one tiny hole it, slim-fit jeans that were about four inches too long so bunched at my ankles, deck shoes with drops of paint on them. The way I was obsessing about how everything came across, you'd think I was dressing for a date. And then came a knock at the door (finally!) I opened it, and there was Aaron, still almost painful to look at. He wore a plain white shirt, Dockers and his Topsiders and looked so clean and fresh, I felt like I hadn't bathed in a week. "Hey, Joe," he said, grinning that fan-fucking-tastic grin. "Aaron," I managed to say, "is it already time?" God, I was so proud of myself for being able to say that without a waver in my voice. "Nope, I'm runnin' late." "C'mon in," I said...and then I noticed the female twin was with him. Dammit. "Oh, Joe, this is Andrea," he said as if he had just realized she was with him. "Hi," she said. "You are so cool to do this." I blinked. I was "so cool"? Jeez, where was she raised, on Saturday morning TV? Fortunately, the manners my mother beat into me as a child (figuratively, not literally; we don't have THAT kind of family) took over and I smiled as I said, "Thanks. C'mon in. You guys want something to drink? I have DP, Shiner Bock, some kind of juice drink." "You drink Bock?" Aaron asked. "Yeah," I said. "Love it." "Never tried it." I pulled one from the fridge and handed it to him. "Try one now. Andrea?" "I'll just have some water, thanks." I pulled out a bottle, twisted off the top and handed it to her as Aaron sipped at the Bock. "Nice," he said. "I got some chips, if you want." "No, thanks," said Andrea. "We're gonna grab a bite after I'm done here," Aaron smiled. Well...so much for the thoughts that used to be in the back of my head. Not that I should have been surprised; I already had a pretty good idea he thought I was gay, and the fact that he brought his female with him to act as chaperone just proved it (hey, I may be dumb, but I ain't stupid). Oh, well...at least I'll get to sketch him. "Then we'd better get to work," I said, making myself smile and glance at Andrea. "I have a stool at my art table, if you want to sit." "Thanks," she said. Hmph: limited vocabulary...though I guess when you're blond and beautiful, you don't need to be able to understand anything deeper than "Nancy Drew," huh, bitch? I turned to Aaron. "This chair's for you. And I'll be here." "Cool," he said, and coming from him it sounded like high praise. "How you want me to sit?" "However's comfortable." He glided into the chair, lounged back like a lion settling down to survey his pride, and looked straight at me. "This okay?" "Fine," I said, fighting to keep that waver from my voice. "I'm gonna do a couple of quick pencil studies first, to get a feel for your face." "You ain't already got that?" he said, and his smile carried that same "I know what you're up to" hint that I'd seen before. "This time I don't have to do it on the fly," I smiled, looking straight back at him. He shrugged, sipped his beer and took a deep breath. "Then let's get to it, boss." And so I grabbed my Derwent #4b and the sketchpad and got to work. And I did sketch after sketch after sketch of his face from a number of different angles and aiming for a number of different feels, trying to figure out the best was to capture his beauty on canvas... And it was the worst hour of my life! Not one friggin' sketch turned out right! Not ONE! Three-quarters left with shading and his nose became this monster fit for Cyrano de Bergerac. Full face line-drawing and his eyes were off center. Profile swirls of full pencil made his neck seem too thin and the back of his head flat. I tried doing an eye, just by itself, in the basic art school fashion and it looked deformed. I focused on his chin and suddenly it took on contours that brought to mind Picasso at his most second rate cubist stage. By the time I started trying to get just his mouth right, I was beginning to lose it. I don't know what the problem was, but I could not find a way to translate Aaron from my eye to my hand! A ten-second sketch I did of him once (while he and Andrea waited at a traffic light) was a better rendition of him than anything I had done that evening. By the time I'd torn the tenth sketch out of my pad and slung it over my shoulder, I was ready to jump out a window I was so frustrated. I think Aaron and Andrea felt it, because she began picking up the sketches and saying things like, "Oh, this is good," and "Baby, he got your ears just right" and crap like that. And Aaron's smile kept getting smaller and smaller and less certain. Guess they thought I was locked in some kind of death spiral with my art and were afraid I was gonna go off into the equivalent of an office rampage or something. I finally slung the pencil across the room, grabbed a Bock and guzzled half of it down just to shift my focus away from my growing sense of failure. I mean, shit...I wanted so much to impress him...to wow him and make him like me and become my friend and let me hold him or just be with him, and I was fucking it up so perfectly. Now he'd know I'm nothing but a stupid little faggot who's just like all the other faggots who’ve probably come onto him and I'd be dismissed like I was a bit of shit on his shoe. Just something to wipe off. Aaron slipped out of the chair and sort of crept over to me and said, "Hey, buddy...you okay?" "Yeah, I...I'm fine...I..." I muttered, then said, "I can't get it. I've never had this problem before. I...I can't get the sense of your face. The contours and life and...and..." I couldn't continue. My stomach was churning, and I was tasting something far stronger than beer in the back of my throat. Oh, perfect -- now I'm about to be sick in front of him?! He looked at one of the sketches and shrugged. "It don't look bad." "What the fuck do you know?" I snapped back, before I even thought. "It's shit! I don't know what the fuck I was thinking, saying I could paint you. I'm a fucking idiot." He got this way too patient expression on his face and said, "Tell you what, why don't I just buy that watercolor off you for the forty?" I was already ashamed of my outburst, so I nodded. "Lemme get it." I went to the closet and pulled out one of my portfolios. I have one for every semester, and I make damned sure I get every piece of my artwork back, no matter how crappy I think it is. Nobody gets to mess with my work but me. I was already digging through it when I realized I was in the wrong one. I was about to put it back when I noticed a sketch I'd done in second semester drawing. It was a squiggly line drawing of a Chianti bottle with a candle stuck in it and wax dribbling down the sides, like what you see in cheap Italian restaurants. A nice little rendition layered in more emotion than I'd remembered, no great news...but it stopped me dead. "Aaron," I said, not thinking (if I had thought about it, I'd never have done it), "lemme try one more thing." "What's that?" he asked. I rose, holding the sketch of the wine bottle. "My second semester here," I said, "I took this experimental drawing class, where you try all sorts of things to jolt you out of old habits. One exercise was, we had to blindfold ourselves and sketch something by feel. We didn't know what it was until the professor put it on a stool next to us. I wound up with this candle in a wine bottle." He gave me a wary look and said, "Uh-huh." I think he already had an idea what I was going to ask...so I asked it. "Can I touch your face? Get a feel for it?" Andrea finally popped in on what I was asking (the dumb bitch). "Wait, you want to what?" "I want to close my eyes and run my fingers over his face and do a sketch that way. Maybe that'll help me out of this artist's block I've got." "You can't draw like that!" she said. "I already have," I snapped back. I slapped the sketch into her hands and began digging in my box of supplies. "But I can't do it with graphite...I need a conte pencil. Something I can feel on the paper." "That sounds kind of weird, Joe," Aaron said, giving me his "I know what you're up to" smile again. I found a good piece of conte and turned to him. "Head and shoulders, only," I said. "I won't go any lower. Andrea's here, so you know I won't try anything else." And that was my tacit acknowledgement that I knew he thought I was out to sleep with him. Man, I was feeling bold all of a sudden. Or maybe it was desperation; I HAD to break free of this growing feeling that I was an abject failure, and maybe it would help. It couldn't hurt...and no one was going to expect anything from it anyway, not even myself. "She can even blindfold me, to make it all correct. Think of it as a magic trick...or stunt." I wish I could have thought up a better argument, but hey, it worked. He cast a glance at Andrea, who was not looking too pleased, then he slipped me that little grin, again, and said, "Should I sit back in the chair?" "No, the stool," I said, and I popped my art table stool right beside my easel. Then I grabbed a paint cloth from the table and offered it to Andrea. "Will you do the honors?" "Why do I feel like this is something David Copperfield would pull?" she asked as she came over and took the rag. (Not a great joke, but not a bad one. Dammit.) I propped my sketchpad on the easel, again, and readied the conte pencil in my right hand. Aaron sat on the stool, just inches from me, his wary expression still riding his face. "Just be careful," he said, only half joking. I spread my fingers and positioned them atop his left eyebrow, then Andrea blindfolded me. And she did it tight, too. (The bitch.) I took a couple of deep breaths...slammed the realization that "I was actually fucking TOUCHING Aaron Friesen's face!" out of my mind...and made myself focus. Okay...left eyebrow. I ran my fingers over it, light and gentle, trying to translate what I felt with my left hand into what I was drawing with my right hand. Let's see...nice arch to it. Hair's smooth, not bristling. Neatly follows the shape of his eye socket. Not bad. Slowly on to his left eye. Good form. Smooth flesh above the eye, not too much, though. Lid creases back with a fraction of the lid remaining. Soft eyelashes in good order, too. "This tickles," said Aaron. I shushed him then followed the top eyelid around to the bridge of his nose. So far, he was perfect and smooth and felt exactly like I thought he would feel. And the bridge of his nose was no different. A small round dip from the forehead down to the top of his perfect straight...wait a minute. His nose isn't straight. The bone bulges a bit at the top...and the dip is more of a sharp curve that's been sliced into it. I stopped and felt the sheet of paper...found the smooth waxy line of the pencil and made an adjustment where I thought I had drawn the bridge, then my left hand drifted over to his right eyebrow. It felt the same as the left. Nice arch to it. Hair's smooth, not bristling. Neatly follows the shape of the socket and...wait...it angles down more sharply than does the other. I stopped and let my fingers play over his skin, trying to get a better feel for the shape of his skull. Then I noticed the hairs on his eyebrow curled into each other more...and there was a slight crease running at a slant through them at the point where they curled down around his eye...and the texture of them changed, slightly. I stopped. "You have a scar," I said. I felt his face turn to me, just a bit. "Yeah," he said. "You can feel it?" I nodded. I heard Andrea come over. "Where?" she asked. I could picture her bending in close to look. (Get the fuck back.) "Right eye, where his finger is. Josh and me had just seen 'The Three Musketeers' and we were havin' a duel with butter knives and he got me, good. But that's back when I was seven. I thought it'd all healed." "There's just a hint of it," I said. But it was something I had missed just by looking at him. And then I started to understand my problem -- I hadn't really been looking at him. I'd just been gazing upon him, like you do with a statue or some piece of installation art shit. I wasn't seeing him because I thought I already HAD seen him and already formed him in my mind...if that makes any sense. Suddenly, I was noticing the little details that made him human instead of just perfect. I drifted my fingers back over to his left eyebrow and felt it, again...and this time I noticed the same pattern in the hair -- it wasn't straight and smooth, not really; it also curled just a little...just enough to give it depth. And this time I noticed there was just a bit of a bulge in the bone of his brow, meaning his forehead was not just smooth and even, but had curves and movement all its own. My hand trailed over to his hairline and along it to his sideburns and danced over the beginning of a sharp cheekbone and down to where his jaw began under his ear. Skin not so smooth but with hints of blemishes, still, as it rolled across the formations that began to build his face. I traced the line of his jaw...and felt the warmth of his breath on my palm as my fingers did their light little dance over the tiniest of clefts in his chin. His breathing seemed softer to me...deeper...and made me hesitate. And then I heard him lick his lips. I stopped. I couldn't get a sense of where Andrea was, and I didn't want to continue unless I knew. "You're not looking at the sketch, Andrea." I heard her move, slightly, behind me. She was. "Don't tell me what it looks like," I said. I heard her swallow before she said, "Okay," in a soft voice that had risen a couple of octaves. The way she said that one little word expanded reality within me, and I knew all I needed to know. The experiment was working...and she was focused on watching the sketch evolve. (Which is a good thing.) I drew my fingers up from Aaron's chin to his mouth, felt the hint of stubble peeking from his skin. His lips felt fuller than I had pictured...rounder...smoother...warmer, and then he licked them, again, his tongue glancing off my fingers. There went the screaming lightning again, right down my back and slamming into my thighs. And this time it took the combination of both my briefs and my jeans to keep my erection hidden. But this time there was more to it, too. Yeah, it was a charge to be touching Aaron like this...but I felt like it was anything but simple lust. I was finally connecting to him...and that connection was whispering from my left fingertips to my right ones and giving me a view of him I could never have imagined. Now he seemed even more beautiful than before. My fingers continued their dance across his face. I found the tip of his nose has a hint of a point to it and little dents over the nostrils to keep them from being too smooth. And his left cheekbone curved a bit more than the right one but the skin on his face had filled it in so that you would never notice unless you actually measured it. And his ears were colder than his cheeks, so they would be a hint bluer. And his earlobes were soft and rounded and creased under to his jaw. And his right eye was a bit rounder than his left. I felt the softness of skin above his Adam's apple and noticed how sharp was that point in his throat. And how the muscles of his neck blended together like tiny threads twisted around a straw. It seemed like I had only been touching him for a few more minutes before I finally had to step back from the growing overload of sensation. I yanked the blindfold off in a bit of a fog. Even with the low light, I had a hard time adjusting them to where I could see. Aaron was in deep soft focus...but I could tell he was looking at me, unmoving. His breath was still deep and quick. And Andrea was behind me, still looking at the sketch. I finally got my eyes under enough control to look at what I had done. And there he was...in soft black conte pencil against white paper. Oh, the lines were uneven in spots, and I'd doubled back over his features in a couple of places. And the shape of his head was indistinct (in fact, I hadn't even really tried to do more than get his eyes, nose, mouth and chin). But this sketch had his look. It showed his beautiful little "I know what you're up to" grin. And his eyes were deep with feeling. And his nose, which I had tried so hard to make straight and perfect, curved a little and became more real than anything I had sketched before. And the line of his chin was in direct proportion to everything else. Even his ears looked just a little bit cold. I was stunned into silence. "Aaron," Andrea whispered, "you have to see this." He hesitated...then rose and stretched and looked at the sketch...and I looked at him...and noticed his nipples were pressing against the fabric of his shirt. Without thinking, I glanced down. His left ankle crossed his right one, making his left leg jut a bit out, but it couldn't hide the extra bulge showing inside his Dockers. (So...he IS a boxers kind of guy.) I looked up at him, not even thinking, and realized he was looking straight back at me, a hint of confusion in his eyes. I turned away, shaken. I still could not speak. Somehow, Andrea set us up for Tuesday, 6pm, to which all I could do was nod in answer; then she and Aaron left. I cannot remember one single solitary thought I had at that point. I couldn’t even tell you for sure that I had one. I was a zombie caught in some deep black magic so soft and quiet I didn't even know it existed. All I could do was gaze at the sketch...watch it gaze back at me...watch it seem to breathe and smile Aaron's secret little smile and wait for me to respond. And suddenly I was bawling. Now this wasn't anything at all like weeping or crying or getting misty-eyed. This was gut-wrenching sobs that came from so deep within me it seemed they could never end. And they didn't start out of sadness or grief or happiness or any coherent emotion I could name; they came because I knew (without question I knew) that for the first time in my life, I had approached perfection. For the first time, I could understand the story of Pygmalion, who carved a statue so beautiful he could not help but fall in love with it. For the first time, I could understand the fascination with "The Mona Lisa" and her secret dreams. For the first time, I had looked into a sunset and seen the face of God. But instead of running from Him, I had leapt into the sky to shake His hand and wound up flying higher and higher from the sheer joy of my boldness. And even when I had looked down to see just how far I could fall, I hadn't grown afraid...just become more cocky. I was Icarus caught in the exhilaration of flight and ignoring the danger of the sun. I was an artist, a real honest-to-God artist, for the first time in my own mind, not some twit faking his way through classes and fooling people who didn't know better. I had only my own arrogance standing by waiting to send me crashing back to earth. I had the fire to be...just to be. All of these emotions tore through me at light-speed, careening off my thoughts and exploding into each other to create feelings I never knew could exist. Add to that the honest tensile sensations of my fingers exploring Aaron's face and the whisper of his warm sweet breath into my palm and the sound of his tongue licking his heartbreaking lips, it all became overwhelming and right and tears seemed the only appropriate sacrifice to the moment. Oh, dear God, I would have died for him, right then. I would have taken a bullet. Would have ripped the head off anyone fool enough to want to hurt him. I was a lioness ready to protect her cub. Could that be love? I honestly do not know. All I did know was that an exquisite knife had slipped between my ribs and was caressing my heart. I could never feel this beauty and pain with a woman; it just wasn't possible. And somehow (I don't know how) I knew...I just knew he had seen the same truth. And he was coming back, on Tuesday. How could I live until then?