Gay Erotic Stories

He had the longest, smoothest, most perfectly shaped legs I'd ever seen, with hair the color of corn silk, soft like down but still glinting gold in the morning sun as it swirled up skin tanned to just the right shade. His shoulders were broad, but not so much that they dominated his body; and his hips were slim, but not so much that they seemed narrow. More of the golden down whispered up clean arms and more lay gently over his chest (from what little I could see past the few buttons he'd left undone below his collar). Further glints were visible across a smooth but firm chin (probably three days’ growth of beard for him) to indicate how masculine he was, even though his face was still vaguely boyish and unlined. He was at least six feet tall and crowned by longish golden hair, with impossibly blue eyes that were still open to the world. He wore a white cotton shirt (long sleeves rolled up) tucked into an old pair of tan "OP" shorts (so retro they were new again), and Topsiders instead of Nikes or boots (no socks), giving his casual stride just the right grace and making his proportions feel exactly right. And when I saw him on that April day under a cloudless sky, exiting one of those overpriced Lexus convertibles, all I could think was, "I've got to have you." On canvas, that is. Nothing weird or kinky here. I'm too -- what was the word my mom once used on me? -- "reserved" to be into something like that. Besides, I already knew better than to expect anything more because of his female "twin" who was driving the Lexus. I'd seen them both around campus before, and you could tell from the way they clung to each other and kissed that they were anything but brother and sister. Dammit. I mean, it's one thing to want to possess perfection; it's totally something else to have to compete with it for it...if that makes any sense. Not that I'm ugly or vividly deformed or anything. I'm just...average. In every way. Be it height, weight, looks or build. I can't tell you how many times I've been told by my jock brothers that if I'd just put some effort into it, I could have a good body instead of an okay one. And how many times my one and only sister told me I could get any girl I wanted if I'd just talk to them and smile more (gag). And how many times my mom told me that even though my skin freckles instead of browns, like theirs, it's no big deal. I think the only time I heard my dad make a joke was when he suggested I was conceived by the Holy Ghost, because I was almost that white (jerk). No, the one problem here was, I'm definitely a guy, and I saw zero indication he would ever be interested in anything like I wanted him to be interested in. If I really was interested in that. I mean I've done things with guys. Older ones who picked me up and liked to be called "daddy" as they sucked me off (a crude way of putting it, but it was a brutally crude kind of sex). And others close to my own age who liked the fact that I looked years younger than I really am, but who only wanted to get their rocks off and split before I was able to find out their names. I'd get a moment's satisfaction out of it, but I never really enjoyed it, never really knew if it was right for me...if it really was "my way." Not that women ever interested me. I've only come close to going all the way with one, and she was a dyke in my high school who just wanted to see what it was like with a guy. Jeez, we got so freaked at just the heavy petting stage, we both bolted from the bedroom and slammed "The Sound Of Music" into the D-V to keep from having to deal with it. I still sigh over Christopher Plummer singing "Edelweiss" at the end...thank God. Anyway, there's the real problem: Here I am, a third year art major, finally and officially legal for anything and everything I could possibly want to do (at least, what I'd be allowed to do, in Texas, it being such a fascist state) and I don't know what it is that I want to do. In anything: be it career, future, life or love. That particular day (period of time, really) I was in the middle of regretting coming to this university because suddenly nothing I did seemed to please me or the idiots who call themselves "professors of art." My smooth, sweeping, monotone landscapes were "perfunctory." My still-lifes layered in colorful oils were "derivative." My graphic art style portraits (sort of a more detailed Nagel with color) were compared to "second-rate crap you'd see in a junior high public school." And as for history and geology and a course on Faulkner (of all people!), they were off to very bad starts. On top of all that, my ridiculously over-priced dorm room was feeling way too small (even if it was just me living in it) and had piss-poor natural light available, and my folks were howling about the money and my mid-term grades. But I think the capper was when this asshole "friend" of mine (who swore he was straight) got wasted on "Tina" and tried to rape me. When I wouldn't let him (probably the only time I ever successfully knocked a guy on his butt), he called my mom while he was still stoned and told her how I liked it up the ass. Which I don't...I don't think. At least I haven't, yet. All in all, not a very good year. Anyway, there I was sitting on a bench in the quad, soaking in the last cool breeze of spring (there were already hints of the usual seven-month Texas summer in the air) as I waited to go to my horror of a life drawing class...when he hopped out of the Lexus and "she" drove away. Now, I'd seen him around campus before, and I'd sketched him on so many sheets of paper (in pencil, in pen) that I've lost count, dashing off the feeling, grabbing the curve of his body under his clothes, adding the details from memory and usually turning out something good (well...decent, anyway). You see, there was more than just physical attraction here (I mean, I don't usually go for blondes); I have this major obsession with proportion. It's so rare to see every aspect of anything match just right -- be it a building or tree or human body -- that when I do happen upon something or someone that does, I freeze and try to burn it into my brain to render in some form or fashion. So it's not like he was sudden or new to me. But there was something about this one time...and this one place...with everything crashing in on me...that seeing how he looked that morning, brought me a sort of peace. I whipped out my sketchbook and pen, by habit, and glanced at him a few times as he passed, trying to get the feel of the moment as I let my pen dance over the page. Then he caught my eyes for the first time and smiled and nodded in that college-guy way of saying, "I've seen you around campus," and I forgot to breathe. I just sat there, my mind a complete blank until I heard a perfectly modulated southern drawl purr, "What's that?" I jerked around to find he was eyeing the few lines I'd managed to do in my sketchbook. He laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Didn't mean to spook you," he said. "Just wanted to see what you're drawin'." "Nothing," I mumbled. "Just...just trying to capture something on the fly." "What?" Numbly, I slipped the page back to reveal the last sketch I'd done: a felt tip scribble of him in left profile, smiling, his arms crossed. I didn't like it much; it was missing something (a final spark to give it life) but he still grinned with pleasure. "That's me. Wow, you're good." I shrugged and said, "This was just a quickie. A...a quick sketch." Which was a lie: he'd stood still for a good ten minutes waiting for his girlfriend to finish talking with a girl she knew. "I've done better." He leaned closer to look. "You still signed it." "I...I sign all my work, even the stuff that's crap." "Uh-huh," and he flashed me a smile touched with a twinkle that suggested he knew I knew it was better than I said, then he looked closer at the sketch. "Joe. You did that paintin' that's hangin' in the refectory." A student leaning into his open locker, casual, is reading a textbook, done in shades of blue except for his skin, feeling a bit hidden and distant. One of a dozen student paintings on exhibit from last semester's composition class, the only art class I did okay in. I was surprised he’d noticed it...that anyone did. "Yeah," I croaked out. "One of my classes." "Art major, huh?" He squatted beside me, those amazing blue eyes piercing into mine, that fan-fuckin'-tastic smile on his face, those perfect legs seeming even more perfect, the golden down curling up his thighs to his crotch... Shit, Joe, don't look at his crotch! Not when he's this close! I concentrated on closing my sketchbook and took a sip of the melted ice in my drink. I was having trouble breathing (my mouth would have made the Mojave Desert seem like a rain forest) and I was suddenly terrified about the tuna sandwich I'd just eaten. But he didn't seem to notice, so I nodded (hoping I didn't look like a monkey in heat) and said, "Third year." "I transferred in to do a dual -- sports an' communications. Name's Aaron Friesen," and he held out his hand. I took it...and just the fact that I was touching him in any way, form or fashion sent screaming lightning down my back to my thighs and brought about what has to have been the fastest erection in modern history. Thank God I'm into briefs instead of boxers. "Joe Martin." Even my name's average. Well...not exactly. It's Joseph Allen Martin, also known as "Jam-The-Cat" in high school...for all the dumb reasons you can think of, but mainly because I was heavy into art and used that to keep the dicks who weren't afraid of my jock brothers off my butt. I'd do sketches of them for their girlfriend of the moment and that seemed to get them plenty of play in the back of daddy's car, so I was cool...and now I'm drifting...close to hallucinating because of this gorgeous guy squatting next to me. Not good. Focus on Aaron, you dumb shit. "Listen, Joe, I'm gonna be straight with you. I knew you're an artist. I've seen you workin' in your sketchbook and Andrea -- that's my girl -- her roomie's seen more of your stuff on exhibit in the art department. She says she saw one that looked a lot like me." Yeah...late autumn by the dorms, sitting under a pecan tree, three-quarters right, soft green tee shirt, tan Dockers, sunglasses, done in watercolors and -- Oh, shit, he's gonna bawl me out for being a fag and staring at him so much! "I...I just liked the composition of it," I muttered, "a student under the tree...studying." "Cindy liked it, too," he said, still even and smooth. "Fact is, I was wonderin'...my folks' anniversary's in a couple of weeks, and I never know what to get 'em. And my brother, Josh, he always gets 'em just the right thing; don't know how he does it. Andrea says since it's their twenty-fifth, I should get 'em something silver, but I was thinkin', y'know, a...a portrait or somethin' painted would be perfect, this year. So could I...could I buy that one from you?" I just looked at him, blank. I would never have expected him to want anything I'd done. Period. And he wanted to buy this second rate toss-off piece of crap from me? Man. All I could think to say was, "It's just watercolor." "I know," he said, looking bashful (Jesus, God, I wanted to hold him). "But Cindy, that's Andrea's roomie, she said she knew it was me the second she saw it, and I think my folks'd like that. I could get it framed and..." "I'll do a better one...if you want." He looked at me, taken by surprise. "Really? You mean, like off a picture?" "No," I said, without thinking (if I had I'd never have said it), "no. Pose for me and I could...I could do something in oils on canvas. It'd take a couple of sittings, but it'd...it'd mean a lot more. Be a lot more impressive." "Wow." He thought about it for a moment then looked at me, sideways. "But how much'd that be? I don't have much money." We could work something out in trade, slammed into my brain but I caught it before it hit my vocals, and all that came out was, "Forty bucks." "You kiddin' me?" "No! That'll cover the canvas and materials." "But that's leavin' nothin' for you." And he had this little I-know-what-you're-up-to smile on his lips. "I...I'd get to work with a real model. I've never had one before." Which was a lie. I just never had one I wanted to pounce on before. But he seemed to accept it. "A couple of nights, you said?" "Yeah. Uh, a few hours Saturday or Sunday, then a couple of nights over the next week to get the details down. And if it doesn't wind up perfect, I...I'll give you the watercolor." "Wow. Sounds great." "Okay. When's good for you?" "I dunno...Saturday I'm interning at Channel Two till five..." "You could come by afterwards. I'll have everything ready." I wrote my dorm and phone number on a strip of paper and gave it to him, hoping he wouldn't notice how my hands were shaking. He chuckled. "Rushin' Hall? That's across from the Phi-Delts, right?" "Yeah," I said, smiling. "They keep reminding me every Friday and Saturday night." "I been there. 'Bout six, then? Saturday night?" I nodded. "See you then, Joe. And thanks." He stood up and I let my eyes furtively sweep over him again, then I looked up at him and said, "No big deal." He smiled and sauntered away and I watched him go. And I began blessing those "OP" shorts, and blessing him for wearing them in the face of a time where style demands that men and boys wear hideous clothing (like those baggy half-pants which were, at the very least, a desecration against human anatomy). They fit his form just right, emphasizing his hips instead of his crotch as he neared me, and laughing over his magnificent rear as he strolled away. Now I use the word "rear" deliberately, because there was nothing vulgar in his movements...nothing crass...just the gliding motion of a panther wandering through its domain with a patient benevolence. It hurt me to watch him...to watch the smooth rolling of the shorts as they slid up and down the back of his leg...the golden hairs tickling away from the fabric then gliding back under, like waves whispering upon a gentle shore. Suddenly I realized I was about to ejaculate in my briefs. I pressed my legs together and let myself enjoy the sharp little sensations it sent all over my body. Then Aaron glanced back, caught me looking at his rear and turned away, smiling that little I-know-what-you're-up-to smile to himself again. I shot right then and there. Came close to dying from the beauty of it. At that moment, I realized I could spend the rest of my life doing nothing more than painting this one guy and I'd be happy, just like Andrew Wyeth and his "Helga" pictures. Well...guess that answers one of my questions.